Sunny spells and gormless showers may pop-up,
Sure,
who knows what to expect?
Scattered,
varied temperatures throughout and persistent.
Staggered,
Meteorolological incertitudinals
Mindboggling,
The algorhythm of the Boolean
Windmaker
Nearly an hour later,
job done,
could be better
manicured,
hair free like the lawn.
Still there is no beating
waiting in the utility room
and there never was.
Just happened
to others-
still got scared
at the thought
of it.
We
never had a
utility
room.
Love the smog, says Chuck, give it a $500 bill
Even if it only handles Three-Fifty.
Dedication is not enough:
Starve, go mad, anything
but Christmas and the Queen.
Decent, Open violence:
Heaven.
No guns or knives;
smart weapons, suicide bombers
can have it all too themselves:
Totally Assured Destruction.
Watch them, video game Field Marshals
play it on the beach, with the grandkids, at Christmas,
and watch The Queen inside smart shades.
Backwater
Turbid water:
frogspawn and dead mite,
leaf and leaf mould,
moulder in water,
and smoulder in fire.
In the watersmoke,
a quick refraction
moonlit silhouette,
stick strike and flick,
a stunned roach lands
soon dead:
Stone dead.
My first and only fish.
March home,
shirt stuffed
with bluff pride,
a natural born
roach killer.
Voices hear off. Who’s that?
Sotto voce, surely not…
Laryngitis? Going round.
Dan the Man,
very quiet, very soft.
Hard of hearing what?
Panic: King of Song breaks out!
Windows flung shut,
open air freshener
acrid Lavender.
Look out window, see blind woman,
shout hello, silly me
I can’t hear her, radio off,
mute mate shows up, funny looks.
Is it me or you? Tragic
You me: who we? Comic
Heads start to implode.
All I said: ‘Nice Day!’
watch blind woman talk away.
13:13
The familiar guest is here, bearing honey.
She has been through much to be here just now.
No powdered purgative prevented her,
temptation flopped, nothing but nothing kept
her from this preordained destination,
on this day, at this time, in this place: now.
Wind whips rain into a lather, suds flop
coating the gunny sacks of chrysalides.
In lamb we trust, mint sauce spooned, vinaigrette,
in dollop, drizzle, cavalier splashes,
and in gravy swilled figure of eights.
Suds slip down in dirt, super, saturated
soil where rose and weed fear to bed in wont
of oblivion, just when you least expect
a dandy bramble jallops the windowpanes.
No rest for the wicked, it tattoos.
looking out…
soft sighs and shrugs, sees
squalid sheets charge hedgeward.
Origin: the sea,
Which enters with flourish, flushed,
proscenium left.
Orange house recedes inland,
Lazy sill whippet sees me,
We conflate
with waving cypress,
All the same:
spraybent.
Upstart blasts
stale room,
hurricane farce of wrappers whorl,
vortex forms
in comet
crater
hemisphere
How they chunter!
Tales of dogs,
chickenshit,
the dank,
the undoable in mud,
steep bare beds,
sheer stony crud.
Sipping soup
Under bivouac
Pigeon holed,
ensconced,
mordant
no spade plunges,
no plant grows.
Rice next year
Paddy fields forever
Roll up your trousers,
sport a lampshade
on your head,
Erect a pagoda
On Glastonbury Tor.
Drowning in the noises of black sea beach,
Ruby boyhood daydream in the winter hall,
transported from dull to duller :
a February vacation.
Call them Martin and Matilda, twins with
no redeeming features, seven years,
staring out the tiny attic window
as the rain came down in bullet lines.
They peeped from the corrugated hay barn
across the weeded concrete.
In that black plastic was a mushroom of horsefeed,
ready to be given out.
They shared secret oilcake to settle the rumbling bellies,
gothic caverns, avenues blood lit and sumptuous.
I cut my nails and parts of me appear
to touch as if it were the first time.
They touch warm scuffed chromium, solid and secure.
A distant puck of patter,
and the churning buttermilk of linen stir and lapse,
contained by the shadow of muttercup.
Grimbeau 