You remember Gonks: foam stuffed cabbage patch dolls born of an oil crisis; Mister Mennish in a way; eminently home-makeable – scissors, clear glue, felts of varied hues & farbs – you got your Gonk! Mine was called Paulus,
after a little gnome who welcomed
all and sundry
to his home.
My Personal Paulus disintegrated
after a vigorous thrashing
in our twin tub.
It always had
a masochistic streak…
looking inward looking out,
they do not do up and down no more
Could if they had necks,
or long hands and periscopes.
If they were so fortunate,
and with the CCTV linked to the telly
that is not the same as a neck of your own to play with…
Inner scented oriental mood,
sucking on a Zube,
watching chicks insinuate.
It is now.
Can you imagine
how good that is?
You are smoking
On a street corner in the fifties.
You are wearing a hat.
It is a busy street.
High rise buildings.
People. A city. Night. Warm. Promising.
Am I right?
Fancy an omelet
Fresh green salad.
what the heck let’s go again at the witterings good work out for the digiits if nothing else.
Cut those nails, Howard Hughes. I implore you. Simply.
we got two zero one nine big time fult tilt bullshit flying oppressive radio waves goodbye to reason
is Prokofiev taking the piss saying look ma no hands to the conservatory
burning leaves with his true love
bitter sweet body of work to discomfort you in you dotage
…nORTH aTLANTIK cONVOY SHIPS kAMU kHAZI flagged cREWED bY sCUM & sAWBONE tAR AND scurvy RUMbLINGS eavesdropped fRoM AN aPPLE cART IN cHAINS sTIngING lIKE THe seaside BEsIDE ThE sEA sTop
Ottie spotted whatshisface darting through the briny meadow chased by awesome owls freshly waxed mauve incandescent as nocturmal solifluxion made merry with the crockery
Fleur slashed in the well drawn room acting out all overcome feigning fly girl on a swing sporting giggle and flash Commando Figtree her ruby lipped succulence but briefly before crashers burst in to nibble little Lavinia, the scuttle fish ghoul. It was a mere afterthought to tip the wink to Soames it’s back to basics when the cock crows tango
In the temple Hamish craved his long lost sporren over Arbroath smokies yet on hearing the on stage ructions seized his moment to make off with Count Onanski’s hoola hoop on a whim. Oh to see their faces when the word gets out!
‘Slash & Burn. Slash & Burn. That’s all you hear these days…’
‘Oh do shut up and dice up your neeps. My God, is that our Hamish with a famous hoola hoop?
Exclaimed those that knew
– In about half-four?
Eventless so it is for waiting
here is stifling dull
the enervation so immense
it aches her now
each silly little thing phases you again,
envelopes you in wireless waves,
On waking up, the news app tells me
all Turks rise up from oppressive sheets
and that a
shocking percentage of the obese can bend
their slothful feet in the middle at will
Can badgers bend their feet in the middle at will too?
Make a note of that.
each & every time it is written it is read frequently with a view to publishing, thus revealing the lack of output and quality,
symptomatic of the pernicious drivel of the web, dangling out the sort of wealth that distracts from obscene penury.
The allure compels bad writing like
the ticking off to a nuisance child breeds sullen rage, a temper tantrum never aggravated an annoying fly. In this sea of sludgy dross what chance the poor genius who don’t think in code but coneys?
Self-promotion is the answer we are fed and therein lies the rub. For being a shy retiring violet with a gargantuan appetite for blood who never courts controversy or mere attention,
my chances of breaking through to international recognition are all but diddley squat
yet still you write, says Pop Up at last
The sun is beginning to shine and I have a Venezuelan cat-burglar cheesy like a Cheshire Catb getting on the tit; with a little ermine ketchup and sharp scimitar mustard I will be loin-girded to two-face the travails of fast fake days in real time…
so you pretty much write this garbage to dump it on, to let off steam, move the lonely muscle…?
when you put it like I cry
How do you thing that we feel?
found down by folklore
a lush distressed
in the wee small ones
watching moonstones cast white light
enough is more than less than this last line:
‘Careful on that cheap gunge, Sis!’
The wind chides
blue onions kiss
grey skies blush embarassed
‘Do wise so like a wise thing does.
See that Puma dreaming on the bayou
how it not wakes with crazed hunger &
deal with things thought liberated way
It cannot or can it simply not?
For dietary products require
A Cat & Mouse Act
rubber tube for radical effect.
So it’s after you, Claudette then is it?…’
crunchy nut cornflakes. But the cars. The cars are such a giveaway, roaring, strutting, revving in the frost.
–Brrrm, it’s a cold one, Cleo.
–Yes, indeed it is, fair Romeo. Let’s go for a spin.
For it is well documented that I detest dark mornings. Only last week I spoke passionately on that very same subject to a captive audience of soiled mugs and spoons as the kettled steamed and coffee reeked with promise of chitterling nibbles
The end of the world as they know it.
This afternoon my unquenchable thirst
is accompanied by a mind made of puppy fur
There is energy, but it is all over the place,
thin and wayward, dry and soggy, like those ill
-kempt meadows or ruffled lawns. Making meadows is
no laughing matter: neither is the end
of the world, no matter whose
Is it sleep wakeshiftime?
Only just before clocksays nine, a warm still heavy evening groove, musky dusky, smell of drying hosed down earthy foodstuffs, traffic air settling taxi rank , no breeze or trees. Still heavy yield summer night. Ninetheless…
My kaftan is wet; music grates, wringing it makes me feel warmer than bevor: it shouldn’t. Trampstink: that’s it; stale groin, summer stale. out of conditioner. Bouquet of ersatz snow drop.
Go jump in a vacant lake. Can’t walk. Again. Still can’t walk. Gurn and bear it. Dense. You brought it all on yourselves monitors read say so no-one else is to blame. To blame. No-one else? There be scapegoats available ! Surely… go make someone up then.
You’ll do. A reader. Now, what are you like, Reader? Read…err.
‘Would you like your kaftan hung up outside?’
‘How can I reach it in the morning? Hang it up on the door…but even’
Cannot hang out and retrieve your kaftan? Liar. You could if you tried a bit, but I get your point about leaving shit around. Look at it. Everyfuckingwhere. Have a cider and forget it, you sullen self-pitying sack of soppy cyprian spuds from Syracuse…
‘Pass me the tepee, I’m unsettled.’
‘In a minute, I’m doing something’
Nothing comes of nothing. Something then, better than nothing; unless nothing is something. Back to square one, or the same one that where we were. Were. A funny place you always return to, even now; or, then. Slipped it your notice the slipping. Don’t slip: you don’t notice yet you know, don’t you know. How does it feel when you are not it, tell me? Prithee counsel me, I impish floor you. Prithee finger food.
‘Voulez vous volleyball?’
Volestranglers of the world delight?