Grimbeau

Scroodles

Category: Poetry

The Shopping Forecast

Red berry cider and barbiturates
take me through the hours of darkness
shelling peas by moonlight,
harvested by these the very
hands that plucked them from the eiderdown yesterday
When I was kneehigh to a grasshopper.
After the triumph dispersed
tasked by the vocal authorities
with counting the torsos
of mutilated amazons

strewn across the coffee table
and stacking up
alphabetically by impure chance
ready for removal and despatch
to the far flung corners
of this expansive empire of dirt
‘Save them’
screaming from the chimpden.
Perry Coma did not show
Later we got the whisper
he’d scarpered with the tweed
to live the life of Reilly, Ace of Spies
in Bongo-Bongo Land
where mighty whities rule the roost
hidden in a hodful of porridge
under a suede pergola

Hushed up like a rat after
pissing on fresh linen
do-it yourself dentists
risk a sharp intake of plague spore air
instead of the cold spring waters
All in order to live
for fifteen days and to
regret it for an eternity
spent knitting in a holding pattern
over a smouldering pile
of troubled rubble

Dido & Aeneas Bust

…so they posted all marked
‘Return to Sunder’ and wiped up the wine
stains on the amphitheatre
Dumped the crap on the ancient garbage heap
festooned with the memory of abject voices
moaning on the tundra
A frail insouciance emerges while scrolling down for snippets
to tempt you into a look ma no hands
its me alone before a suspect device
that makes me feel
uncomfortable pouring out my soul
like this online bleeding
out in public on anonymous lockdown
streets in full view of the lonely
avenue where Junior Wells plays harp to passers
by who look up in curiosity only to
discover a chancer with delusions of grandeur
in a panama hat sucking toothless
gums for tasty titbits after an obstinate
chip of stale pitta induced spluttering and panic
before being washed down with a gulp
of cold Columbian coffee then a twinge
in the middle finger
whose name is forgotten
next to the index and ring
on the left hand so what is the right little sad
if nameless call it unknown soldier
close to one of two little piglets

What to play on a rainy day?
Indoor or outdoor games of the mind…

Just Sigh

Jettatori,
casters of the evil eye
Watched on in awe as
Funstick McCraw performed
household chores
Licking floors
Opening doors
Observe three jackdaws
dropping peanuts
Down disused chimney pots
‘I’ll put your head in a box full of frogs ’
Mistah Macawber said
Recall the vernal equinox
All you want is hidden there
Jettatori.
casters of the evil eye…
Just sigh
Just sigh

St Within cherishes rainy days as so many ready made excuses
to avoid demanding chores that lurk in the soggy world out there.
Looking out on a rainy day as sweet chill air rolls in
Wide open window admitting sound of water
Thud of splash on nettle;
rustlings hid under the undergrowth;
blackbird tweets and car doors percuss.
Wet days recalled holed up in a vellum sprite
Cheap drains spewing rainjuice
Psyche found thrumming on the cheap tin roof.

Plans jottings quips amount to owt…
rain she surges in the west,
Sniffs palm oil tankers torched in the gulf of Oman
Lar committed to who knows what cause or other.
Beers and bed . Terry robbed. Midsummer 2019.
Toerag blues play out.
Regrettably like Sundays
Just Sigh
Just Sigh

Call Doc & the Medics to say the cavalry is coming
Hit me with a feather Mistah Merryweather
Tickle some hidden fancy
Inside
Inside

Parlyhouse

Photo by Jayant Kulkarni on Pexels.com

Slept too long and late it seems
awoke in plague dry springtime
when it dawned on me
it was sleek midwinter
a white island volcano clears its throat
in ducal disapproval
at such ignorance in Plenty Bay
and sends five hikers to their eternal reward
they perished on the non event horizon
for all black holes must eat eachother in the end
no doubt a pompous rumpus will ensue
in the Parlyhouse on the way back down
is this the best that can be done before
a cruel soul sacrifice is ordered?

Day!

Watch out scarecrows
silhouette and long shadow
Golgotha sunrise:
a frequent earworm
reoccurs at whim

Is your ending really a beginning ?
For how could it not be so-

oh and by the way –
How’s that old doggo dada of yorn?

Dead as dorsel dogmeat afeared
Licking up spillaged goosefat
pulverised by muskrat finches
under true blue weathervanes

How’s mine own one going, Missy?

Would she a quiet one
Self harming cross legged in a corner pulling
on a subconcious purple woodbine ?

Yes. Same as it ever was
Smoking woodies burnt out on angstrom,
stool pigeon chested sorbing robust summer sun,
sporting short sleeved pastel blouse open to the breeze,
taken to walking in staccato stumble on feet buggered by servile drudgery, thinking what god knew once upon a time before the flood…

Buddha-like inscrutable some say round here
though harrowed head of blinding anguish
Marinated in dubious sun wonky dreams have took a toll

Suchlike stuff filled Leaf’s priapic sleepshot numbskull & starcrossed marrow bones while he
creeping slowly through her steep sunken garden that late Good Friday afternoon, chanted
‘Was Erin with auric brass neck & hardball shoulderpads watched through sharkfest eyes bloodshot after a catch-up daytime nap from a bad night twice remembered?
Was it panic that kept her up three days killing time with gimmicky zombie horror flix, relishing the dripping of copious rot from pellurid
cartoon blood oozing from every single pixel,
Was it sudden came the quick denouement part made aware of skull cap thinning like a wildly, itchy unkempt beard of cheesewire — a wretched sight altogether to behold, Lucertia.’

Leaf sat now facing late low sun, watching jet streams & midges merge, counting teatime birds play come and go, stopping
to perch for a last feed on the sickly rowanberry, then head in head, out of the cold’s way, when evening nests smell of deep fat friars,

Leaf too went back indoors to see what was going down
David Dixon was last seen dead by a man in a Homburg;
Mason Wells survived his third suicide bombing — random business this life.

What with populations swarming here there and everywhere. No wonder such a radical flux breeds weird shit algorithms, recounting how brown blobs pop on white cows…

‘Go get the washing in! You idler!’

Time bumbles lopsidedly
Westward murk rays prolong shade
Pull the blinds closer to home
Call it a day…
Day!

Noman

Lit up a jasmine joss stick 
Debussy string quartet plays Cluedo 
Turn down horny thermostat 
Open fan widows 
Wine dark dawn begets 
Clear up blue canopy 
Ought one
 talk or not to talk to 
Fiends & creditors 

Made in Heaven

The Dog goes to the old country as the old country goes to the dog

Swifts snatch sleep on camels armed to the teeth with lifelong bags

Something fungal diffuses the rotten air hanging on the wind

Who is Julia?

The meeting of the legspurts went swimmingly and crucial decisions for the next fortnight were agreed,
prescriptions were exhanged fully aware that it was a chance to check out whose who at Newbury Zoo

Loops and Bubbles mingle round the burning monk poffering fresh faggots to kill the time between
events in need of management: to err on the side of caution and riddle the fire with care.

We agree the rules of engagement for long time ahead encounters for ‘I am not Daniel fucking Blake
or Guy the bleedin’ Gorilla. Scripts changed hands in blind faith and we parted on good squirms.

Stricken while the summer quells the rabble with crowdless spectacles and canned hubbub. Dicing
with disaster down the monkey menders. Snakes eyes in a sterile mask runs the flicker show.

Two seals on a dragon trend on suspect media. Strange news from another star. Spouts a humane policy
:count you fingers first. Jaded by disfigurement we plough the short and narrow.

Have they got the urn yet? Couple of shovels of ash and bone tasteful in majolica. Not a municipal jar
Spilt in the boot of the car. Shunted by the masked mammy on the school run.

Mystic Pleated Twine

Part two of July coming soon
To a lockdown pleasure centre in your dreams
Ordered to the masquerade by sage supremacists
Three layers of matter impede chatter
when worn to quell the invisible miasma
Want a ride home in my gondola bright eyes?
Switch on the subtitles it’s in foreign
Rhubarb Rhubarb Rhubard Rhu…
Only One Remote Control
Shared between self isolators
Bound to cause friction in the long run
When everyone’s a mugger or a letterbox

In it to Bin it


In and out like a fiddler’s elbow
Clodhoppers kept on just in case
Susan Heyward smokes a Camel from Dana Andrews
in the days before Jimmy Dean
Short story by Salinger
in the days before Catcher
off with the NHS Clodhoppers
rest up the extremes before the change

A Tale of Two Drips
running down a window pane
How I lost a shirt

extraordinary ebullience breathing toxic air once in a blue moon
peeping down I out fertile earth as joyless mundanity

dearth penalty


Twas a sunny funferal,

down the municipal crem
weep your distance at all times
emasculate


time passes, state radio time, silver screen time, me tonto time, rockin horse time, inbetween days time, time after time out, timeless trips to slumber time, lifetimes and sometimes, time well wasted elsewhere, time spent less productively, no time beyond time itself, end of time, time immemorial, time out, time up, timed out…bit of a baked potato time, invisible wind blows, time pissed and time pewter…


Wasps nest in the brickwork housed behind the suspect sea of nettles
hides in lockdown under the auspices of thriving Jacoranda
The summer rains are set for the artificial test match
Time for old gits to argue over shit and twigs.
Prime Monster’s Hour Approaches
Peep spectres from the inside of a doughnut
insist on right on bluesky thinking over great balls afire–
straight thinking makes immediate connections


Darker evenings in the wet imitate November
if you’re lucky with the weather
play must be abandoned surely
Xavier has cried off poorly
Wasps multiply at leisure


Creepy crawly gas board
selling door to door
removed the offending tube of stuff
inpinging of my needle wound
two cheroots takes its toll
messing with my head


Spoonful, loving spoonful tells me
let the fresh air flow
anaesthetize the stingers
exposing jawbones of contention
piled up outside the door
ready for disposal by the authorities


Back we go to 2002
economically
in only three months
of inactivity.
ran fast to keep up


Found the wasp factory absorbed by Netflix
Weatherwise a goddam ugly gray
Practised the sober art of restraint
Giggling at Scarface
Sporting Clodhoppers on and off
Normal people just wear footwear
as they go about their day
I am unreliably informed
by the Soggy Bottom Boys
Brian de Palma and the Coen Bros
don’t turn up your nose at those
guys who know their business
Two hours pass unstably after the cheroot
Naggingly concerned at making no effort
to fill the world with more of vogon woe
David Mitchell irked me talking up
all lived through experience like grist
to the mill of the creative artist. He was
punting his latest title about rock musicians
with a catchy title that i have spilt at long off
Too wrapped up in disgust and despair. First
Brexit then Boris and now the plague and
a gammy leg. Must try to get out for a nose
about. Take a spin one evening for a run
in the country. Get away from the wasps and
nettles; the ghosts and kettles; the pavlovian life
of the house trained nutter. A return to the world
is a widespread problem nowadays. Not the exclusive
domain of the broken and wounded. The underclass
is swelling. This next wave is a wipe out.
Ovid relished a catastrophe
with a capital sea
Bollocks freezing off
sat up asleep guarding a marina adrift on regurgitated martini
spreading out between an outstretched quay of denim legs
a little bite on the inner forearm
a smell of bacon frazzling in a slipper
historical glimpses into the now
impersonal recollections concerning
the economics of cooking cheese on crackers
little grievances and niggles reveal
what a drag we are become so


The biobubble Test match bugler takes a break
from barmy army duty
to tame once wild undergrowth
to read the newspaper online
between heavenly grey spasms
splash on empty seats


when the ill winds drop, sun breaks through the umpteenth time, the Windies build up a healthy lead. Considerable if still there at stumps
The soundtrack of summer
minus the old ones in the long room

Green tea and a change of strides to tasteful deckchair stripey; the makings of a supper; bake off half-baked sticks; chop some jungle tom-toms;
tins of odds and sods;
packet of ham in date;
ready salted crisps; or nothing till morn

Clear blue still summer morn; bread and butter night of many weewees;
an early morning vaper catches the dump train before a feed of comely opiates;
turned off the Sat Morn Media News and Ents for the entitled;
sun streams in unhampered by nettlebed and wasp factor;
entertain the needy when the tasks are done and the post is passed; nosey passives fo feed elsewhere; in it to bin it…

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