Align your fears,
prick up your ears,
allay your tears.
Here, have some
iconic transparency,
a few homeless truths.
Always rent yourself a burglar when you get a flat.
Take two lifetimes,
a croissant,
and a ‘Kiss Me Quick’ cat.
Bury your knee at wounded heart,
go marry a buffet saint.
nigella’s got black eyes
Mary Berry aint.
I could’ve slept all night
I
Cudave schleppt
All night…&
Stillav’schlept summore
I
Kudda did
Sumthings
Eye’ve
Nefferdun
Bevor….
I’ll never know wot made it so
Xcitin’
Wen allat wonce my art
Took flite
I
Ownly no that shee
Began two dance wivced
Me
I
Cuddadanssed
Darnstdarnsed
Allnite.
Grabbed a bite and had my pills,
found a lorry on the doorstep.
It’s enough to make you sleep
on the underside of the sheet.
Three gifts day, so where are wise guys?
Far away in the Levant, gassed,
Scourged, headless – left for dead.
As for us damned refugees,
Godforsaken orphans
of storms, beast housed: Waiters.
Modest chrome silver drooped lamp,
a huge, grey gym ball and the rest
of the detritus of dead Yule:
dead skin flakes, crumb strewn, smoke dust
coats the mats, the bedding, and
wheelchairs – a seat where mites scoff
Then explode, overfull on the
rich pickings. Intangibly sensed
accummulated filth, fired by
the chill draught of blasting wind
Here a dog ventures out into
the dark aftermath of the
nights storm and the place blows-in…
Eusebio is extinct, died off yesterday.
Sidelight set on sill. Time is a herb.
Lights going out around here. It will be soon.
Two disconsolate blackbirds hop and wobble
on the lumpy lawn of mud runs,
wet dark brown leaves,
and old dog turds of autumn.
Swift smoke streams, light grey wafts
and heavy laden, leaden clouds
rush on the blasting, frantic wind.
Stoic conifers and bare trees bend
and unbend, weave, give and lean.
The rosebush drips heavy fruit, unsteady silver water.
The hens gather silent in their hovel.
Safe as a puffball in a hotpress
wise beggars under feather sacks
in a draughty corner on a damp straw floor.
Fed and quartered on beds edge.
The cold sun sinks, limp shadow
wraiths strewn screeds, scatty notes,
forgotten glimpses of time pledged
dreaming word dreams, now merely
ungainly ugly doodles.
Weak, sloppy, turgid, grey
premises of yarns & plays.
No, just throw them all away,
The black bin bag is waiting:
You only have to turn around.
‘Snow is not thick on the ground’
Hopeless weatherwomen say
When nobody is watching.
Something smells
like burnt Mamba.
It must be
Dinner time.
How can you
play the lute
at a time
such as this?
Two afternoon:
Watched
the last shipwreck.
Those in peril
on TV
Ought to sport
cork vests,
&
Sensible brown shoes
Just in case the wind
gets up
a bit.
Sleep vermillion deep on tilted bed,
blood seeped lush ooze
downslope heading headwards
deflating maculate instep and arch,
ankle, heel, and calf.
Flooded dreams of Fen, Ely, Hereward the Wake.
Airborne screech, bare bummed cackling grimalkin:
surfeit of posset. Traitors lurk amongst
liturgy and reeded, boggy hollow.
The Wash will out the Crown.
Subscribe: Free Calendar! A year in Sing-Sing.
Habeas corpus or what? Amnesty.
Ethical gift to salve the conscious conscience.
Place on cardboard coffee table to catch
the eyes of passers-by, nod frownfully
in silent solace, go wild ape and shout:
‘Owzat!’
Then, from red animate to grey plausible go
do your best sepulchral Arlott:
‘Calendar caught Eye bowled Jaffa.’
Grimbeau 