Grimbeau

Chronicles of an endgame

sour the day,

The last cormorant glides

home half-asleep.

The tapering headland not

faraway

Is blacker; the treachery still

indiscrete

I trail past the quiet, dark

caravan

Chest pounding with sorrow,

tried to walk

it off but

it don’t go.

That woe-begotten rotten vixen’s crushed this

bleeding heart.

On the rise, I make out the chirpy nightscene

Of Port Ithaca’s tourist

hostelries

Thronging poached obscene grockles

Python Lee Jacksons in a

broken dream.

In bleak, rocky gloaming

sunsettings.

A Has-been at

seventeen,

Slip  slow my

Instamatic in my jacket pocket

And leg it

to the Admiral Benbow

Childhood’s true

Denouement

Calamares! Just stop this

punishment!

Onlooking makeshift beach

shanties say:

You polluter of paradise, repent

Your vile Ouzo hubris

I perish cold

And alone on this too early morning

Watch a little life pass by,

transient soul

Is floating about you, a dark

sponge gloating

At  flaccid white Nordic

corpulence.

Soon the morning beautiful will bring

Bronzed, ideal,

muscular poseurs, chewing

Lotuses

laughing stage loud at the thing

Sat shivering in freezing cold Ionian bliss

Hungry harpies,

daring you to

steal a piss.