Rashers for rascals Passion:
I-Plays the sound track,
a bit happy clappy,
Nevermind,
Just
Oldtime
Tradition.
No such thing
Today in Oxford,
Generating widespread Consternation,
the Contemporary Council
thought it for
An Erotic Installation.
Smart,
smug Smart Alec sat,
soiled by ibex ordure,
popping vindicates
at established fates.
Marquis de Plonqueur
Mozart Violet echoes
conch in Sea.
All is stop.
No ghosts,
(One did look!)
The door!
Is that a dog?
Would it, could it be?
Back from killing conies,
flushing out fat farm rats,
haring up hills,
racing gannets on the strand.
Yes, don’t be silly,
it was here,
it was her.
Fresh as the icy, blue zephyr,
that bid me: ‘How are Ye?’
Jim brings
legal dose,
two bags full,
the dog bolts
the open gate;
found basking,
break dancing
on the rec,
chewing a rhea;
waiting for
a vacant swing,
some spare rib,
to be fetched back
here.
Go on, then, if you dare,
Rise up, Croppy Boy,
Glean sinister coin from those, Your Master’s Ouns.
Our spies inform us about your bloody business well,
So, we remain sanguine, aloof, sipping on sweet, iced Spritzers,
Before deploying these Howitzers.
Crimson Cuprinol,
sand fence,
cure and enjoy.
Rude
Health is
wealth,
all the bells ring
and whistles blow,
Geronimo…!
Fuck me, afternoon choir!
Get out and get at it.
Wait…yes, an
Easternwind.
Just clout on.
Naked:
To the truth exposed!
Catch your death
Outside in that.
Stay in, smoke tabs,
keep warm and safe
from the Garden
Midnights.
Silence breeds lunchtime.
Tell tale signs:
Blue teeth,
Buboes,
Trombones
fetid Mind-Wort
Hyacynthia…
Up in Maine,
we bathe in Clover,
not Butter.
Radio Gone,
auto cut-off.
In the Smoke:
Big Matisse
Jazz Gig.
Scissor Sisters
to preside?
Sounds on the Staircase.
Voices without faces.
Cup in the Galley.
Prospect of Coffee
and Perfidy.
Great Allotments of Albion yield up
sweet pea & radish.
The bearded mates look maddish
and lose well
the first challenge, woody, blemished
offerings get scant consideration from the judge,
old before his time, made over for the telly.
A sex god with a perverse
glint in his eyes
when he says ‘the last thing we want to see
is a drooping sweet pea.’
He knows, you know
Bake
spuds, move rainbow, smote bowels, cower
shower.
Get out of this space: mace.
Downside up
outside handcuffs.
Get out of this space:
face.
Run and run, hurt and hide, get out of this
space:
race.
Tulane, hold back! Bivouac, lamb Ada.
Get out of this space: chase.
Chantilly, paper, shoe. Confiscate your…
Get out of this space:
Grimbeau 