‘Your universal joint’s gone west,
its serious,
I’ll do my best.’
He frowned.
The tension was killing me
so I kicked it off
hard in the nuts.
It bolted.
You could not see its heels for dust.
‘I’ve cracked it!’
exalted the wheelwright
straightening up.
‘You had pre-stressed oil:
now you ain’t.’
I danced with joy,
it started raining.
The rain dance
is the only
dance I know
Fourteenth century tower
Greybeards playing chess with stones
Bad losers throw stones out windows
Kings, knights, bishops, pawns, rooks and Queens
Rain down on the heretic
Foraging for clues
Irrupts surge in rent
open permanent up torrent
firmament redundant bluff
abundance waits on
thunderstorms to pass fast
judgement is found remorseless
for thrall the best
in the sparseness of time immemorialised by fleeting potwallopers .
Yipes! William Faulkner and 1244, decorative Gothic meets the peer plan
documentary hungry for knowledge to feed enfeeble headtones
after Danish pastry pig out.
Ooo that falling wall,
claxon sounds, run like buggery,
watch out for falling scaffold, crumbling masonry, she’s going,
timbers creak, buttresses flying solo, gargoyles bite the dust,
a great levelling has its ups and downs as well as highs and lows,
be carefree what you wish for,
be not so dour nuncle,
there’s fuck all left for you here.
~
Hit the road Jerk,
and dontya come back no more, No more. There’s a thought. No more.
Put that in your Pope and smirk it.
Get you over the hump it will.
The hump? Figure of bad posturing breeds Hump.
Son of Grunt and Thump, mate of Drug and Slump,
came out like frog up pump, ended up with frump.
Semi precious Rump
~
Some rain we had while shrivelled up eating chunky cheeseburgers,
water was flooding down the hill no doubt.
Emergency traffic lights installed—intrepids in waders stride out.
Tractors Hydroplaning nowhere fast.
Inconvenient to basking water buffalo, Joe. What’s it about?
Four afternoons. After the clouds burst.
Out in torrents Choirboys cast off the yolk in raucous broken vocals.
Elderflower winos.
Caught out between showers.
Call to adventure.
~
Put me in a home alone. Chide me not for fumbling. A room with a not you in it.
insisting be nice or we’ll ignore you,
leave you to stew in your juice until
you learn to please and thank the lord.
No second childhood here luv
—old age stinks to high heaven.
Thanks but no thanks very much.
Count your hidden pills. Consult the almanac.
Last day of May. Off with the clout.
World cup and Wimbledon make it all worthwhile somehow.
Jackdaws drop sticks down chimney pots.
Now where did Mabel leave that shotgun?
Helicopters come
and go chasing
Michelangelo
observe him shuffling in the morning sun in t-shirt and fag pocked boxers, shambling about in a battered panama feeling better he says
half and hour’s worth of washing up and hoovering upstairs and a break before a shower and some evening sunshine if it stays he says
looking at old doodles in notebooks full of portraits of despair and dishonesty it was much worse than words could ever in themselves he says
renascent caesarean section moment of involuntary entry into a world full of priests overheard from the womb giving up last unction he says
orphans fear having orphans eggs the holy man would tell us and that kissing made you pregnant before marriage but never tell a soul he says
the sound of that wry dry chuckle was common in ancient Mesopotania when sex went on for six days and six nights without a sign of slowing down he says
strand long empty strand giant crisp bag onrush don’t push me coz I’m close to the hedge down by the river endorphine surge of reveries to come he says
The things you can do without an electronic typewriter
humble simple me—
yet the holy purpley babbling brook has been enclosed
in fancy fuzzfeed—
there is a kiosk where they strip search you & sell you
stuff you know you need, for example a goat follows
you up and you follow it round in ever creasing circles
until pop goes the
weasel and you are the prey for today—
why I didn’t give up writing was the river
it went elsewhere to an unpolluted
secret silent sea of air
beyond the fetid clouds
emitted in the form of toxic lemon drops
a way above the chimney tops which was where you found me
Shirtless people got no season to forgive…
Forge me fresh iron gloves conceal dainty awesome hands
dwell snide outside of town & gown
& horsey country mind settees,
our ward young Toby thrived with Chinese knives instead.
Secret Agent one day; Detectorist the next—both found dead
Then came big break evil Asian confectioner caught
stark bollock naked without socks
onstage in a theatre that never shut—
St Simeon’s inrage thus inspires high hopes
in hapless giant hogweeds eaves
Sleep up high on the motley jonquil hog agenda —
lost generation chess records
put XTC to the plough & harrow—
take cream cakes & comfrey gourd
nuncle carbuncle cure all—
go to the foot of your stoney stairwells—Look up!
And see Boss Bhagwan Ayatollah Lip Gloss spreading such admirable disgust
We must see him rocking now in tiresome indifferent light—
post war on boredom trilogy
where an invisible man sees the disappeared
hobbling bent reflection in the right wing mirror of a runaway truck
and
like spotless old leopards
hid in mustard cress
fails to impress
—only yesterday’s child waved back it is said
before restive time dragged it away like a hassled mother
to the nursery aware that unanswered waves savage the tardy—
try hard to get over it with short enticing books
timer set to last one hour including adverts
or
shorter still fifty minute therapy
—books where the work happens in the outrageous transfer fee—
pre-defenistration Guy looks more beat than hippy sheik—
Cannes film festival held on ice, next time water
down the rusty Rhine if the goblin cats allow unlucky days
old shapes reform as cuticles
ascension day bereavement—myths of evening airspace—until the next time should we be spared this broken nail—stagflation or stagnation
know your limits! Six years old am I naked on a hillside cloud watching on my back a man approached with a cough I grabbed my duds and snook away sharpish
In the year of 2008
an orangey black hearted
sunflower withdrew from this broken world
to spout twaddle while he was not entire…
Plausible, good name
for a cute kitten
smoothing an ostrich quill—
A kodak bear eating Jill
My little sister
Who nascently smells funny
Is less melting in his yinyang maul
While he nibbles her nostril
she comes over too tranquil
Forge me fresh iron gloves conceal dainty awesome hands
dwell snide outside of town & gown
& horsey country mindsettees,
our young Toby thrived with chinese knives instead.
Secret Agent one day; Detectorist the next
big break evil Asian confectioner caught
stark bollock naked
onstage in a theatre that never shut—
St Simeon’s inrage inspires high hopes
in hapless giant hogweeds
Sleep up high on the motley jonquil hog agenda —
lost generation chess
put XTC to the plough—
take cream cakes & comfrey
nuncle carbuncle cure all—
go to the foot of your stoney stairwells—Look up!
Boss Ayatollah Lip Gloss spreads such admirable disgust
we see him rocking now in tiresome indifferent light—
post war on boredom now
where an invisible man sees the disappeared
hobbling bent reflection in the right wing mirror
and
like spotless old leopards
hides in mustard cress
—only yesterday’s child waved back
before time dragged it away like a late mother
to the nursery aware unanswered waves disintegrate insiders—
try hard to get over it with short enticing books
timer set to last one hour including adverts
or
shorter still fifty minute therapy
—books where the work happens in the outrageous transfer fee—
pre-defenestration Guy looks more beat than hippy sheik—
Cannes film festival held on ice, next time
down the rusty Rhine if the goblin cats allow unlucky days
low hanging myrtle truths once banished by white decree come home to roost — is there still honey for tea, Rupert? Ask bumblebees of floating greybore voters.
‘We’d hoped they’d all perished in the recent cold snap. old chap.’
Still a few stiffs left out in busted shelters, wheelie bins or found sat bolt upright dead on bent up knees by watching doggers
noxious nectar dribbling from well spiced cardboard coffin ship, apparently a Cambridge boffin, one of them a pal of Stephen Hawking but the wrong denomination for the Queen of the Bees Knees
Grimbeau 