Grimbeau

Scroodles

Category: Poetry

Sanctuary

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When six comes

round I will shower,

avoiding Pointless Celebrities,

Strictly Come Prancing,

disport my pinball skills,

pray for deliverance,

and listen hard to

Words & Music if

they have not been downsized by

bloody austerity

One Track Mind

hector with thistles

Five

Dark

Winks…

Chronic dependence

Ipso Dipsomania

Ugly lovely noun

Wouldn’t send a dog

out in this weather, would you?

Now that’s a tough one…

Yes, I reckon that you would

Only if you must

You are incorrigible!

Irredeemable

Inveterately

Tractably

Thirsty

Roomination

back 2

Fifteen minutes thrum

sat broody top blue duvet,

hatching awesome eggs…

inscrutable hors d’oeuvre.

Get the lift  down primed to go.

Wash away the evidence.

A gulf of  crusted vanished years

Fludd

Fludd

Whether Hitchcock should

have directed Scrooge before

he left Eggland for

Hollyweird to make

Rubicon and cop

an international

trepidation bugs

me fleetingly as

I avoid the shower and

its brutal red sequences.

Yet at some point I must be done,

just not this rosicrucial one

 

Same Old Malarkey

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-Apart from walk what

would you like to do?

-Dunno, don’t think about that

much these days.

Go out?

Where?

What to do?

I’m skint anyway,

then there’s the weather,

and, to be honest

I’m not much company,

and, repulsive to look at

except in a ghoulish way.

See I’m pretty much

resigned to that these days.

Don’t get me wrong though,

I haven’t given up.

Where there’s life…and all of that.

What about you, what are you up to?

-Cosmic time travel,

the laundry,

a spot of Pilates,

watch some junk on the box,

maybe a spot of bear baiting.

Same old, same old.

Isn’t online shopping a godsend?

The time you save…

-Dunno, don’t do it much these days,

too much damn hassle

and then there’s identity theft,

hacking,

and you don’t know

really see what your getting,

well you can’t can you –

not unless you’re really there,

in the shop or whatever.

-We could go shopping…shop-ping!

-Nah, I hate shopping.

crowds of people.

Bloody people everywhere,

getting in your way,

pushing.

-What about Christmas then?

-Quiet I suppose…

a barren tundra

of dread bleak isolation.

Same old malarkey 

Farce of Habit

Harvey

old habits dye hard

excluding ectoplasm

that’s easy-peas

Trumpton Riots

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Green sky thinking

Prevailing Ditherama

Mexican standoff

Stop the world right away

Figure out what’s going on

Stuck in a sand trap

On the dodgy nineteenth hole

Fiddling with your quiff

love the sound of your own voice

No choice is a choice

Tardy as Milk

A woman crossing a stile after the flooding in the Thames Valley, December 1915

Not up to speed yet

Morning enters delicate

Stage left in sackcloth

Overwhelming need for socks

Permanent obliquity

Every breath taken

See a world without hiccups

Fittingly wintry

For the time of year

Eggman

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Didn’t John Lennon

get shot round now?

December…

Feels just about right.

Nineteen eighty what?

Thirty five years ago,

or so,

Swansea,

late slate

afternoon,

around about four.

Got up and switched on the box.

Programme interrupted.

Tchaikovsky piano

concerto repeating, scratched,

the 3rd or 4th.

Man, that was bleak.

Live in one room save on heat.

Never happy, never happy.

Eavesdroppings

strange-old-jobs-12

Robinson & Gamp,

Umbrella names –

came

From works of fiction

Defoe & Dickens wrote them

Most respectively

Dear Mr Santa Claus

Stop shoving useless

Information in my headbox.