spherical conical cubicles, glass
rubric creatures, wanton quantum climber
guttersnipes, elide chandelier longroom
crystalline, horse-long gazes, old rotters
frilled and crimped, clacking tutting ruddy rouged
snotters grope fey wan dull ruff pomander gals
guillotinable beaus prance too-polished
honey chestnut rink slick oblong cakewalk shute
snooped by crack silk crimped black witch dowager
madames as boozy, & gout-struck porcine slobs
burping wallow in the whorehouse stable slops
.
The Vulture Man’s
a shallow fellow,
his words well said,
his thoughts chrome yellow
No milk
to cry over:
traffic and bollard,
pothole and hedgehog,
flood and folly. All delay delivery.
Try your best without.
Think Wartime,
make and mend,
a stitch in time,
careless talk
costs lives
Octoplasm gruel, eternal gloop,
stodging things up, malingering till good
night calls:
Halt…
So, farewell to another afternoon,
Subsumed in swoon, in a pale pink fractal
falafel, catacomb syrup lair, actual
familiar blue room, pale pink womb, belly
blubber walls, well plush crow’s nest, full of shit
and sticks; Indian cuckoo spits, some maps,
Wedgewood tobacco juicer, ugly cuddly toy,
fond of you set,… Just going, going, gone.
Two And One Post Meridian: Postilion Shuts Theban Bins
Anchor cleaning: orders of the day.
Not too windy to drift.
Up after dog watch thinking on the charts.
Took a row across the harbour.
Thought about the little snob I was; how I hated them,
not for what they were,
but what they had to become…
Oedipus was a rich kid, so was Little Hans.
Give them a chance not a choice, a chance to be like you, boss?
No thanks, I couldn’t handle it.
Not this way.
I drift…
…away off down to the cabin is where I drift
to and thereafter, the galley for thick, honey porridge,
with rustic ripped banana hunks and chocolate in stick and heart form.
Feeling a queer unease I patient on the thick, night green socks, intake a Handel
organ frill, damn the rococo, and headaloft thinking gothic tea cozies, shaking violently with warps,
sucking crumbs of welshcake from the hidden gulleys and fold of my jowl, and making them into a workable lozenge for laters…
…the morning cheroot was a burden to me,
lugging it grotesquely bear-handed from room to room,
unable to trail it as before the phillipic spillage.
Bessie Smith delivers of her best…
let that be a lesson
To us All
Midday
After eating sliced processed hens breast bedded on little gem and smoked rashers we reconvene blemished by the common ingrate, geraniums in a strop of red tape and horsepiss…
Elfden
Chumpden
Chookslayer
writhes about
In fresh turdies,
guffawing tiglets,
splurging glurb,
drooging knucklers,
whenxe
a seizure to indulgest
a zit of DIY Greco-Roman
unter den perchway
to sepulchritude.
‘Is this the way
to get a mush kiss,
standing here still
pulling my penis?’ He snoods
toothe fladgey gorlslush
whooob gawbs a goober, hollowring:
‘Ingorge anti-intoxicants for it
forthwith & pulverise the amoeba-3
out of the armadillo, Pillow!’
Grimbeau 