Daft as a thrush in song, peppered by turtle dove shot, endangered specious snipers go to pot seen nobody but your familiars since the shodding excursion. No discourse on the telling bone except to the pharmakon one egg owed to the corner shop. Sir Noot ate all the crusty bread. Mettoys crude long vehicles jacknifing in your head as i breathe i grows rich transporting ancient coins over the funicular isthmus on the tough bodies of the cattle of Bashan
On the ruby doorstep before you stands a parcel for Professor Phipps, It contains a pouch of pulverised sage intended to keep your lonely onion amused over a plague infested Yule.
A thermo-nuclear fog envelops the sleepy town of Trollenberg as erotic zombies fill dishwashers incanting the curses of Mali and smiling on the memory of Nkrumah’s wizard foxtrot.
‘Maradonna’s dead’ They chant.
‘Good, but what of little Diego?’ Prompts the whip cracker.
‘Mudlarking, no doubt. Skipper. Prizing dentures from washed up concubines of the East Indian mob enshrouded in sepia drab.’
A sable crow observes all of this from a tendrilled groyne. The ocan is muted, unspectacular, vivid. Waters lap. A heat pipe chortles in darkest Abrasia.
‘Will he wash?’ Chant the wanton zombies
‘In good time, when the opportunity arises.’
An emphatic whip crackles.
‘The crusty stench is beyond the pale of the daily luminal’
‘Up here on Waum Wen we call it crud’
‘Crud!’
‘Poor wee Diego’
If your youth spoke words of love, give him this answer right away: ‘There’s too much light here, it’s too shameful In the light: if you’ll lead us to a darker cave, I’ll follow.’ While he goes in front, credulously, and had no sooner reached The bushes you hid: and were nowhere to be found. Janus saw you, and the sight raised his passion. He used soft words to the hard-hearted nymph. She told him to find a more private cave, Followed him closely: then deserted her leader. Foolish child! Janus can see what happens behind him: You gain nothing: he looks back at your hiding place. Nothing gained, as I said, you see! He caught you, hidden Behind a rock, clasped you, worked his will, then said: ‘In return for your union, the hinges belong to you: Have them as recompense for your maidenhead.’ So saying he gave you a thorn (it was incidentally a white-thorn) With which to drive away evil from the threshold. There are some greedy birds, not those that cheated Phineus of his meal, though descended from that race: Their heads are large, their eyes stick out, their beaks dressed as vermin in ermine and prone to crass cupidity
You who remember Squire Gonks’ Almanac and Charlie’s Aunt beware. Beware of foam stuffed velvet aphids. of gaudy palmable comfort bags, of protei packed cabbage patch dollies, and other suchlike pre Vietnamese potbellied fads. Gaudy were those blobs born fully formed of an optic oil crisis and a major miner’s strike that felled a regime of long standing empire of snot, botched though they were by lumpen candlelight late into the black out night during the three day week, when a ten o clock blindfold was a plaything of the pissed.
If the Gonks could do it then you could do it too. You could have a privileged white space hopper or a bespoke purple chopper and flaunt your carefree brazen streak in broad daylight through scrumptious corporate orchards. Mister Mennish in ambition but not so cuddly as gonks were in a disposable tactile tantrum way; eminently best home-makeable on the laminate dinner table – blunt scissors, clear gummed, sample felts of tasteless hues & farbs – put it together and you surely got your Gonk!
Mine bestie was called Paulus, a mythical gnome in a fabulous lamimate wood, purloined from under a trestle table at a school fete worse than death by gammon tickling. It was Paulus who suffered a fly on the wall documentary crew to film in his ancestral home and share the ups and downs of pastoral life in the knot of a tree with a bunch of fellow arboreal misfits . As I recall there was a big mean black crow called Ted Hughes who harboured deep dark secrets of the occult and allotment plot.
Paulus disintegrated after a vigorous drubbing in a temperamental twin tub. having always had a penchant for self harm then known as accident prone by abusive adults.
Life sure weren’t perfect by no means in the seventies.
river reeds make a scanty bed
the frantic lust for riches
beyond the wildest dreaming
audacious barefoot beetles
scented lofty ridge ahead
ecstatic gust bewitches
capricious barefoot beetles
indulge the wildest dreaming
wildest barefoot river reeds
indulge audacious beetles
scented scanty bed bewitches
capricious lust for riches
May got seventeen today,
made glorious summer by this sausage pork,
and in its air a’plenty
rain revealed a summer born,
the maid unaware craved its drains to roam,
its culverts to clog―
a strange pain over the tantric temple,
a sudden inability to spit,
a teal sky,
and a giant bird:
omens look pretencious at dusk.
Perish the floorboards that overhead creak, blast those heavenly strangers that audaciously speak, expounding crass mouthfuls of weak forked tongued chic, while outside your window a thunder rumbles, and inside your stomach grumbles sleep, when blank lassitude replaces pernicious scorn. Soon the rain rushes and winds lash, dreamscapes fall urgently, sudden, thick, vast. Cool insurgent breezes cut through stuffed draught worn halls. Yet above they just keep chuntering and you must strain to know what’s happening and get to not worry too much about what a load of shite that is. This is not the point of this exercise it is more to do with keeping your fingers moving and the juices flowing after this prolonged enforced lay off so never mind if it smacks of Torrance in the Overhang and it does not scan. You are not obliged to show it to this world of strangers and avatars who haunt the pestilent ether. Caught deep in mid breath came a loud crash, ‘What is that bloody awful noise downstairs?’ Okay just get it down and to hell with the editing and punctuation, wait till the cows come home to roost. Your balls are hurting. Go out for a walk in the tropical suburban garden. Take a nocturnal piss on the ugly laurel by the crimson front door for old times sake. It will soon be dispersed by a cloudburst. Hailstones will pepper the dawn this time round. Get up for a drink and washed your ears when it arrives. Keep it going till light brings scant relief. Open the little window wider. Turn the heating down a notch.
Tomorrow visitors are legalised.
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Mins
when the moon in the sky is a big peice of pie it's perturbing all martians are closet anthropologists the quality of mercy is not strained hence the lumpy bits seize the day gently by the scruff and rotate leeward on its axis run rabbit ran the takeaway on gin lane dry me a river as i dried a river over last weekend my baby don't send me clothes love can move fountain pens
chill,
wet first frost
rest thin little
finger on a pin,
four wet angels
shimmer
in
salt
Grimbeau 