Clunk!
The drunken drongo clambers out
the egregious red slaughter van.
His
Is a face like putrid brisket chewing.
Soon
He will be sent down into the flowery furnace.
The charge:
Serial respiration with thirty-seven charges
for being a noxious twonk to be taken into consideration.
It
Is a sad reflection that such base grunge gets written about.
More
bloody darts repeats.
Dark again.
The tide is out.
I
Am not.
Dawn blasted the drapes
Umbrella
Creased smug night
Levity
Hocus pocus slights
Mister Rhees
Easing out a moist
Anchovy
Cyril Sloth ate all
through the tempest
spanking the panes,
whipping the shrubs,
wiping the eyes of
Sussex and Cypress
Teal unreal
on that charred
Hard clay night.
Thinks: worms lap
sun-drenched blood
On midday grass
No buttercups grow there.
True iguana weather: no cicadas.
Another good skin shed.
Rustles rumble;
Murmurs gruff;
Whistles whet;
Bristle thistle…
A thrill frisson
flowers
like quicksilver
The mist lifts, revealing droopy,
vernal, Amazonian gloop.
Parallax, do my eyes sin?
In the clearing, by the wheelie- bin
The sure sign of alien matter
on the ground,
Gin Pink, silver-bowed, twenty some.
Beside these espadrilles, wellies, moccasins,
Clogs, Hush Puppies, Wellingtons…
Meaningful action of a sort,
concrete intent shown
But no feet in sight to date,
A gradual escalation,
Built on compromise,
a virtuous circle of footwear
Like a fairy ring,
a presence in the region.
Something’s afoot
Nearing completion
After the socks,
come the feet and arms.
Cool plus
the art of cool:
Isometrics
‘woman’s grudge is
women’s definition’
pink chink
on a chin,
a sliced face
to sew:
True.
The camera
is the woman.
It never lies.
In place of dreams:
Streams.
Steam Packet
Steams
Big white
SS Hooper
Smiles
Mallards dive South
In Autumn
Turin shrouded
hemp sack fog
vanished
Will there be Candles?
Yes or No –
Combustion
Good, that stopped the table wobbling!
Went out for a quiet garden moment,
just as I was warming in the soft sun
of early autumn, the army commenced
lawnmower war next door. Disappointed my
plans were scuppered, but undeterred to gain
nothing from my venture, I fetched the washing
from the line and back indoors, though failing
to spur the idle into action, I
consoled myself with the thought of green socks.
Prizing open cocoons
from inside drains
a body dry.
Such a struggle!
The sheer effort!
Yet, for me, somehow compelling;
the ecstasy of sublime writhing.
Hunger drives it.
Just can’t stop it, help it,
like the test your
strength hammer and bell.
Timing is all.
Breathe, hoist, slam.
Or perhaps a
better metaphor is
Greco-Roman wrastling?
A Dormouse in a
stapled paper bag,
rampaging like a
fart in a trance.
is fatuous:
Oryx in a coconut
gives a notion
of the dimensions,
but at least the fear of asphyxiation is passed …
(The discerning, attentive and functional
amongst you will realise that I am on a rest break).
Grimbeau 