False start, phantom urges,
torpid orchid, shy to leave.
Back down, board the junk,
Jesternista, caught a crab,
choppy weather, flayed on blether,
sever Trevor, war not love,
H-bomb ambrosia,
cream the pesky varmint rice.
Ring the changes, ding-a-ling.
There’s a thing. Hell’s got bells!
Jesus wept, overslept,
missed the bus, succubus.
Train to Darksville,
never late, never late, never late…
Stumbled, hugged, slurped,
puffed the grizzly, mizzly
still born grim morn
Away with the furies,
the septic harpies,
the skivvying puggled blurb,
the chivvying, nagging
behemoth of claptrap and piffle
squatting in my gnomic canyon.
The limescale crumbles line the mug
The unicorn dismantles the cradle
The dish does away with the spoon.
Everyone chips in when
Push comes to shove
At the heel of the hunt
‘What you want’s is a kick shit
editor!’
Said Sal
‘What you needs is
A cretinous creditor!’
Sal said as
I listened in silence
‘Love me Daddy, do’
Life’s full of compromises.
We smiled.
Contrary opinion
urges surgeons disembark
the good ship selfie
& comprehend I & I
made of space uncuttable
inside drag’s ragged hedge
fledgling woot suits sibilant
on saxophones edge
‘Each one counts’
‘yes, of course it does: each
And every one counts one more
A Prial of poems
about giving
up
using cigarettes
as a metaphor.
Smart, uh! Believe me!
I’m a Vicar
Dark morn sings heavy pox since muse took
some vital dive and ate my words
Sure, some got rescued by tree beast and now it
dwells in silly mode
a link and the easy magic
rolling from bed to let my thoughts and
dreams is done and gone. Now, morning is just
me, the kettle, a microwave, and the
coffee pot and I better get used to it.
Thus, today is a new same old as I
take coffee and drugs and head upstairs
by Tardis to the muse with black keys and
switch on the shipping forecast and the yarn.
Now, where was I…
Happy is the man who can bear the things he cannot change – Schiller
Each time insurgent
Wind surges spank opulent
crimson drapes and naughty
gusts arouse dormant
gooseberries on exposed,
soft wanton thighs all sigh
Lush,
chocolate ground juice
breaches ripe knapsacks,
glibly squirting,
soiling deep plush pile rug.
On
garish cushions we float maculate:
spoiled flotsam; jetsam of anarchy,
Two headed orphans
scowling quadrophrenes
brazen twisted Sisters scream.
Grimbeau 