trout brown maroon grey Slaney river sauceboat
gatekeep watching bold fishers
poach some ten pound boots
pink chair hairdresser highlights Daisy;s roots
in Wrinklebury mon amour darkened my door gone half-past four slipped wahey in stealth
having doctored plantive oak leaf moulds
buffed up limbless elfen torsos
made purple heathens quiver stark
pellucid black pools team up with newts– eat spawn like mango chutneys do when stirred
turned clock back to front
opened plastic door
revealing dark interior
suspect timing device
fitting in a way
let us just leave it that way
long night vigil howling wolf
disturbed by shagging corpses
truncated aspens
sprinkle dream spices
picasso eats a trombone
reinvents blue moons
Pin flags map on site mock up sea green mulch
free hand rolled paper slapdash poster painted gaudy play pit mud
snap plastic pocket pink forget me not token pink keepsake compass
cracker gifted know not
nefarious purposes
no doubt
prerequiste propitious ping
drunk titans caught cavorting
thus not
looking proper fallen crested
Claude immortalised poor Cassidy
—dry chuckled to himself—
funny name: budgerigar
neither fish nor foul mouthed
just felt like doing
Justice to something somehow…
~
Second symphony stops
abruptly wind up elastic band
let go lolly stick & bob’s your uncle?
Bawdy music hall, brazen burlesque, venereal vaudeville,
downfall of pretty belle epoque
Wash of brassy whoops-a-daisy
Claude comes later, tired, broke
Worn out orchestrating
Underwater chateaux noir
Doctors Sardonicus, Faust
Caligari, Diplodicus…too absent friends!
Sleep late come morning
Daddy died last night, Mon Brave
to lOve or tO Be
loveD That is the qUest(ioN)
(of) whEther (I) tis(Sss…)
noBlur RingS tHe mY en(mud)d to beaR
thE wotsIts & thinGummiEs
oF reGrunge aNd unctUous excretiOn…
cHorus (si’l vouSpLait the Lait)
siLilLoqO’qUoOozE
Found ruminating
over moist Golgotha cud:
infrequent query bugs
flurry
worry
hurry up
get on with it….
Is your ending really my beginning ?
For how could it not be so-
temporarily
by the way of things –
How’s that old doggo dada of yorn?
Dead as dogged dogmeat doubtless
Licking up pillaged
pulverised muskrat inches
under true blue shrewd weather
How’s mine going, is she there yet?
Is she the one over there
Over there by the trough
Sneaking a quiet one
Legs crossed in the corner
pulling
on a woodbine ?
Yes. Same as it ever was
Smoking woodies in a boob tube,
pigeon chested to the waist
sorbing robust summer sun,
short sleeved designer pastel shirt
open gaily to the waist,
walking staccato now
stumbling about on buggered feet,
thinking what god knew
once upon a time.
Buddha-like inscrutable is the Buddha.
Head full of blinding anguish
Aloof crude wonky dreams
Suchlike stuff filled Leaf’s
Numbskull & embossed bones
creeping steep sunken garden
late Good Friday afternoon,
as she with auric brass neck
& hard shoulderpads;
sharkfest eyes bloodshot
after catch-up daytime sleep
after a bad night twice remembered
that kept her up three days
killing time with gimmicky
zombir horror films,
relishing copious rot lurid
cartoon blood oozing from every pixel,
made aware of skull cap thinning
a wildly, itchy unkempt
beard of cheesewire, a wretched
sight altogether to behold.
The simple life is true,
startling obvious
The morning is grey, flawless
My wine soused refugee uniform
Is folded neatly on the pine chair
My eyes are borrowed by cynics
Europe is collapsed
Yes, it’s war…zzzzz
*
Some somnambulists
shopsoiled
scuffed up bad
stagger back
somatex trends on tablet
mauve is the new grey
fluttering joggings, dry leaves,
silent violet slumber
for the wicked
*
On the Box
elegance and decadence
whispered septic tittering
Polly sipping gin through sock
mockery is old hat now non-u
empathy pulls on a rage of folly
anxious barking yells offstage
its Nigella training
loud loquacious luminaries
call us to come heel
*
in the ditch voices motley say
plain as pike staff this
the boss aint
got no threads on
bare as the day
he got born
shouting out orders
to us illiterates
in greek
in latin
unknown tongues
calling
though the know it…
View original post 7 more words
voices motley say
plain as pike staff this
the boss aint
got no threads on
bare as the day
he got born
shouting out orders
to us illiterates
in greek
in latin
unknown tongues
Swift smoke streams bite grey wafts
and heavy laden, leaden clouds
rush on the blasting, frantic wind.
Stoic conifers and bare trees bend
not more pissing snow again
and unbend, weave, give and lean.
Ashes!
England…
Hezwunde
Ashes!
Jasmin trees tend
To droop plantive flops
In these the dog days
Ashes!
Ashes!
England have just won
The Ashes!
Grimbeau 