Then
breaks clear, steady indigo day,
one star awake in the west, cautious
action on the horizon;
nerve
ends flapping on the wind, nerve ends
like underwater shrubbery,
waving and posturing,
sometimes
leeward bowing; sometimes starboard:
a massed rank of constant certainty.
I claim the right to dream in words.
Yesterday
afternoon I ate two
chocolate chip cookies,
the straws that broke the camel’s belly,
and now everything is blubber
& stool.
I have thought more quickly than I can write;
milk monitors;
good brandy & fillet steak;
gargantuan thirst;
the English;
nonsense;
the death of the left;
rain & clutter;
sign on you crazy Diamond;
suffer any wrong that is done to you rather than come here;
the state is an unnecessary evil;
the phones do not work.
Walt sat on the armchair like a mole
on an
abscess contemplating how much space one can
waste in a single average lifetime:
forty-three hectares, approximately, he concluded,
lobbing his third tin of
Foster’s on the parched hearth…
Easter Sunday:
bright blue,
Lapislazulish,
cold.
Crusty as a dead cat
I crawl and prowl
the Vatican
awaiting a peep at
The Frank One.
Lovely weather for it too:
Rising from the dead
after a day off.
Scoff all eggs
Hitting four afternoon
Pretty busy buzz-buzz today:
lie-in (phew!);
hunting fivers out in Windia;
big scribbles with pretty coloured pencils;
youza-youza denklings;
a spree of Django strums and flutterings.
Life imitates art imitates
art imitates life imitates
life imitates art
imitates
life
imitates
Only the Pramchair child remembered
Lord Darren and Grunge ended their hundred year snooze
While the gobsmacked onlookers were mute
The duo dynamic swept through the queues
Wildly pillaging designer training shoes
Only the Pramchair child remembered the truth
The looting and the burning and raze the roof
Spreading to the estates and rich avenues
While the gobsmacked onlookers were vacant
The upside world turned away from lying parvenus
The bounty of a lost and cynical ruse
Only the Pramchair child remembered the truth
The mob ran off home and hid all the goodies
Ate supper quick and caught the evening news
While the gobsmacked onlookers were vacant
Only the Pramchair child remembered the truth
See, I forget my drift!
I have lost me moorhens.
Scattered mummeries
of the dreams we left behind
in the service station
on a beige plastic table
stuck on a wet floor
A low and rhythmic
mopper
mops
somnambulances.
I see myself in a documentary,
a lone rider resting before the next crusade.
Infidel Castro,
beard and cigar,
flying down to Rio for the show:
No chance of light,
tonight
Knight.
Grimbeau 