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.
Femme lyre (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
The rutted track, a spine of sods and marigolds, heads down past the dreamy horses to the fat sow, on her side suckling the filthy, greedy farrow. Stone walls patrol the way, banked by a greensward of tiny, many coloured and varied flowers, whose seeds recurred or were transported by boot, or crow, or tyre. Cows gather at the hollow, metal fivebar for the fetchers and milkers. They will moo and groan, the fetchers will holler and grunt, the slurry and hurry: Charley Hurly, burly and curly, a little shrunk these days, buried his son alive yesterday, alive but unneeded at this juncture.
Lunchtime drifts. I am traquil, good music and the sound of white toast getting buttered. I must try the fivelights Chod thing after food and see if a mackerel pops out the top of my head: stargazer. Bowls of salad waved before me and taken away, minxes and temptresses in flip-flops. Friday afternoon, all washed up and nowhere to go. Good grubuffetoes! Tommytoes, avacatoes, fete, smoked macktoes, cold one side toasted toastoes…a repast worthy of a repast. Sun! Fatballs very popular with the chorus, no truck ad with contradictions, ducks! Contraductions, dicks! Jamming, jamming, jammin’…
…Closer to the nature, aloe Vera etc. just gone three afternoons: Dormancy. A sorb of zaps, velvet undergarments; teal-tinctured tonsils, turpitude, slumped like a Regent in a piping-bag of porphyry. Pimply, snorting Botox to smoothen the wrinkled inner nostrils that run in the family Goosebumpty, at three-forty-five, Malice, a forethought had. A rude awakening: he had not sneezed all day.
‘Milgram!’ he bellowed, ‘the catnip: Now!’
Cringing, worthless Milgram twigged his way through the door.
‘Sir?’ he moaned.
‘Sneezetime. Hurry up’
‘Sir’ Milgram hurried a yard or two, then, out of earshot, resumed his natural slink.
