Chronicles of an endgame sour the day,
the last cormorant glides home half-asleep.
mauve tapering headland not faraway
Is darker; 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 – a woe-begotten
rotten vixen’s smashed my fragile heart.
On the rise, I make up the chintzy night scene
of Port Ithaca’s tourist hostelries.
Thronging poached Grockles being obscene
Python Lee Jacksons in a broken dream
Waist deep naked and absurdly squatting:
‘Calamares! Cease this punishment!’
Onlooking palm shanty bivouacs sing:
‘You corrupter of paradise! Repent
this vile ouzo hubris and perish cold
and alone on this too early morning:
Watch your little life pass by, your transient soul
Is floating about you, a dark sponge gloating
at your flaccid white chipfat corpuscles.’
Soon the morning beautiful will bring
their bronzed, ideal, muscular nonsense,
scoff tapas and laugh stage-loud at the thing
stood shivering in freezing blue Ionian bliss:
hungry harpies, waiting for you to steal a piss!
We are whaling, we are whaling, call me
Ishmael, the lucky bugger who found a tree
trunk drifting in lukewarm Horse Latitudes
and fashioned a canoe: sound, swift, bit crude;
but still, given the hairy circumstances,
he avoided the Fish’s necromancies.
Sat here on blustery Selsey Bill, chill
blasts of wintry Solent swoop the feral
groynes, sloppy creosoted and duned
with mounds of heave-hoed pebbles; propelled
from an ocean of discarded dying hulks,
Trainee corpses for the breakers yard: shelled.
This leviathan could not give tuppence worth
with his Moon and Sixpence and an old hair shirt.
Hallucinogenics at Fatcat
Fritzo’s holiday manor and forthwith
one’s mind sets to lobster pots and poitin.
Down the dark, wet, morbid coastal granite
to an uncertain end in boiling water:
Sure, after a big search a boot found
sockless in the now calm cove, a daughter’s
ripped and ravaged t-shirt, hooked and
no-one in it: simple sea manslaughter.
The paramour, a brazen whacko balmpot
surpriselessly left without a trace for
abroad and other exotic foreign spots.
A hippy chick, called Carla, from Ecuador,
knew for sure that he had disappeared
To Planet Tharg: how verily weird.
The day spreads out gray and joyless, do I care about being attended to, killing off the morning in small talk. Hunger as we roll on ten.
Bennett writes in his diary about just doing the writing, even he in his exalted status comes back to this point. Beneath the comfy slipper and old cardigan exterior is a steely heart: this one is leaden.
Pollop passes with the morning; must eat. Hanging out with Billie & Charlie; set up a BT online wotsit. Friday: tefal time, glad of a bit of feedback nonetheless, contact if nothing else on the inward trip – there ain’t nowhere else to go; try to remember how mobile one is. If you don’t use IT, you lose it. Poems, immersion in words and sounds as long as you can.
Trying to catch beach epiphanies, fishing in my back pages, sinking down, pearlfishing in the silt where the sole sleeps: beach combing. Sound and shape, I want a sunny one. Selsey is wintry, Rocks is winter, Trevose is dusk, Golden is gloaming. Remember Inch, where did that go. High Cliff is hot and sunny, but uncomfortable. Worm is January/ February. Sleepy Sherkin Cove by the maritime station, that’s the one; though all those days of film work were so sunny. Remember, try to remember, the summer. There were good times!
Friday, February 15, 2013
08:19
Touched by a film of frost, the chill cascades
Waspishly from the fanlight that squirts
Little nips of morning, bikini weather.
Motor neuronal city of women
Fret more about how they look than fish do.
Pastel shy-blue, sky-blue exacts beige cloud
Twenty eight thousand miles out there, just now
A space boulder passed over my shoulder
Like one care.
‘Wassup, Cecille? Have you got a problem with Nigel’
‘He’s such a slimeball, Don.’
‘He’s a natterjack, honey. That’s just the way it is!’
‘ And he’s so toady’
‘That’s because he is a toad.’
‘ You’re kidding. Toads are sexier.’
Grimbeau 