It is Ash Wednesday
It is snowing.
Three-thirty
Snow soon to sleet, to rain
seashells at night…
inert again, atrophy,
a choir noise,
upstair faffing footfall,
drone of bedpump, and
fuzzy tinnitus:
Otherwise silence.
Whoops! A fridge hums
No smell, nascent headcold.
Mars Bar sticky chocky moustache and underlip beard, licky and sticky, a bit icky.
Septik light of failing da
Friday, February 15, 2013
08:19
Touched by a film of frost, the chill cascades
Waspishly from the fanlight that squirts
Little nips of morning, bikini weather.
Motor neuronal city of women
Fret more about how they look than fish do.
Pastel shy-blue, sky-blue exacts beige cloud
Twenty eight thousand miles out there, just now
A space boulder passed over my shoulder
Like one care.
At Banbury Cross or nearby toward Brum
Two wagons, four minstrels and two horses come
But by civil war they, and their followers,
The birds, are waylaid by some hollerers
The media arrive in their legions too,
The birds smelling danger away off flew
But returned with yarn and other things,
Flax, and hemp, bandages and strings
Their cohorts tethered themselves to the wagons
But the horses were obstinate and put a stop on
Until a Mina bird popped out and proudly stated
These people, while of your genes and shape
Have no more want of you; they are full of greed and hate.
And so foolish it would be to stubborn stay
Sure, they eat horses processed don’t they?
In flight the birds on their underlings shat
The hoodie, chav, toff, and coppers hat
As Aeolus changed his tack and the west wind
The humans gave up on all human kind
Blew then toward Lundy and immunity
A clouded-cuckoo-land community.
The fleeing wanderers came to quickly know
They would change into the family Crow.
So, with all the morphing and trysting sorted
Bands was from each rocky were exhorted
Then came the birdland celebration day
Love was therein joined, and sorrow cast away
Lunchtime drifts. I am traquil, good music and the sound of white toast getting buttered. I must try the fivelights Chod thing after food and see if a mackerel pops out the top of my head: stargazer. Bowls of salad waved before me and taken away, minxes and temptresses in flip-flops. Friday afternoon, all washed up and nowhere to go. Good grubuffetoes! Tommytoes, avacatoes, fete, smoked macktoes, cold one side toasted toastoes…a repast worthy of a repast. Sun! Fatballs very popular with the chorus, no truck ad with contradictions, ducks! Contraductions, dicks! Jamming, jamming, jammin’…
…Closer to the nature, aloe Vera etc. just gone three afternoons: Dormancy. A sorb of zaps, velvet undergarments; teal-tinctured tonsils, turpitude, slumped like a Regent in a piping-bag of porphyry. Pimply, snorting Botox to smoothen the wrinkled inner nostrils that run in the family Goosebumpty, at three-forty-five, Malice, a forethought had. A rude awakening: he had not sneezed all day.
‘Milgram!’ he bellowed, ‘the catnip: Now!’
Cringing, worthless Milgram twigged his way through the door.
‘Sir?’ he moaned.
‘Sneezetime. Hurry up’
‘Sir’ Milgram hurried a yard or two, then, out of earshot, resumed his natural slink.
Pompeach Med crunched the Iceberg with zest and picked the morsels of snow cameleopard with a spear. The day finished perfect with a bungy jump down the Whopper crevasse. There is something about flying krill that you cannot put your finger on.
Grimbeau 