Grimbeau

Scroodles

Category: Prose poem

Fertile Ground

2688 (1)
Nine days into the new year spring struck the dozy Cut at ten fifty nine on the strawberry nosegay, essential oil spillage romping in abject hayloft recalled Petula and dripping rain down on this jawful of toxic fodder, still beggars can’t be choosers, so they say, but more of that anon
O! mute contorted spring  that of witch from yuledream breaks still antiseptic and vindictive in its luscous bite and repressive in its grandiose vision, all this seen in contrasted tarns of Aryan types of northern european extraction, one applies such strictures others sadder succour, and petit moi in sweet rancid pod spouting freedom crap to passers out. No this one wants it over and done with so much that she can get some quality sleep and spend precious time with her pissed neglected family and maybe by a stroke of luck meet some friends or just play walk the fucking dog as it seems these days everywhere you go there is some needy bitch on heat driving hound dogs mad, bad, and tedious to know
Now there was a blast from the decent past as if i remembered a rhythm of how to spout without stopping and looking up to see the product of my disinterred fingers weep; o for the generous rear of the cheesecake and smell of the loud rampaging nobheads stomping thunderously over the resonant needled flaw of presence and then sudden like almost stopping to consider too stark vivid options, the wild orchids and leafmould hoof persist only now as mummery, got a new one as there’s no two ways about it, what’s more besides bet it snows before next week is through, but fuck it let’s go then you and I and get those beers in Grimbeau mentioned ages back
Do I chance dare in this repair to risk the stair in darkness, or even in the flickering light in this state of twilight, distress and thirst? Onwards and downwards a wag suggests! What are you. a tomfool or an eejit tripper? Of course one will find at the heel of the hunt we all piss blood on a Friday night round here…

Sunny Day…(Who do i write for? Why…for You)

170px-Sapeck-La_Joconde_fumant_la_pipe

 

Smoke

Went up

—new PopE

Fade on the Blether

image4

 

‘Dolphin! I say, nay say, beseech. What kind of a name is than then?’ Pesk was fuddled. It addressed him.
‘The very thing. Dolphin. Dolphin Phipps. Shoot Phipps is bad enough. Could be Godolphin, mind. Arab horsey typos. Own Dettori. Blue shirts. Abdul O’Himmler. That sorta thing…’
The dull surge of midday twaddle tutted. The too much oft and many times earwigged. The Captain’s Table. Pesk ate gray prawns and got out the book of tides. Pesk’s Quest’s companion volume pocket sized. Found the place anointed:

‘Greely Quay & the Giant Cray & Environs’,  page thirty-two marked and read out loud.
“One is instantly struck by the sheer drab of the hillside graveyard as one descends the gradient to Greely Quay after the wily serpentine from Dead Dog Strand. Sitting as it does on the crest of the Daphne’s headland, it seems to mock to shame the bay below as it whispers to the sea “here’s a few poor beggars that your fishies did not gobble up you shite stream!” And, indeed the headstones did tales of souls retrieved from perilous, quirk bedevilled waters: Michael Murtagh, lost off the Vestal Hemispheric, found skulking like a bailiff in Dundown Cove February 14th 1962; Peter Teaser, mauled by the trawler Strawberry Flan, Regurge Sound 28th October, 1989…
‘Hold up! That was my cousin’s sweetheart, Peety.’ The Dolphin man broke in, ‘what’s that gnarly yoke your reading from, my friendio?’
‘My Uncle’s Diary’ said Peck slowly, not looking up.
‘Why are you telling it out loud?’ said the Dolphin man coming across.
‘To find you Mr. Mullins. To find you. My quarry.’

‘You had me going there, Dolphus.’ Perks sighed as they rowed out. ‘I thought you were Pinkerton’s sub-con knobbler…’
Loud came not the stern reply
The cove was mill pond smooth that callow eve. The two men laughed too loud for easy air. Water lapped hollow slurps in the inlet. How far out is safe to row, both mulled hard. Still meant ill, sounds carry gurgles, echoes travel light, stealthy, sock tread, slurred.
—Spruce your caboose with the neck of a goose! Said Mullins gone incongrous, brandishing his cutlass striking a now or never Fairbanks pose.
Music bathed the comely ether. Seagulls squawked of piteous deliverance . A sacrifice most Tuesdays if I feed the shumbunkin corn flakes daily, a hag cockled snagged by gin slings.
—Said seabass emerged its mammy’s lug, two full moons late, a guttersnipe once told us on the haunted promenade, left lug mind the right as if were grommet bunged. No exit, clearly posted so, neon flashes migrained, AC wired buttermilk…
—From sinister portals, indeed. Churned that one over down the years, and thus concluded, ‘Hi, tis I, chance of sip of your sup?’ Beggar off big brute, I’ll have yer goats fur…’
—Guts for gators, probed a scoop nose. Who he? One or tother so. Why it matters not. Time for the Klaxon hoot? Angelus
Klaxon Hooted. A bottle rocked up. The message read:
All their life was regulated not by lordly laws, crass statutes, or dry crust rules, but according to their free spirit will and pleasure. They rose from bed as they pleased, and how they drank, ate, worked, and slept when the fancy seized them. Nobody woke them mind; nobody compelled them either to eat or to drink, or to do anything else whatever. So it was that Gargantua Snood had established it. In their rules there was only one telltale clause:

DO WHAT YOU WILL
because people who are free, well-born, well-bred, and easy in honest company have a natural spur and instinct which drives them to virtuous deeds and deflects them from vice; and this they called honour. When these same men are depressed and enslaved by vile constraint and subjection, they use this noble quality which once impelled them freely towards virtue, to throw off and break this yoke of slavery. For we always strive after things forbidden and covet what is denied us.[20]:159
—Book twenty! Blimey there’s a tome. Mullins was flummoxed. Perks lingered over it, identifying Rabelais, but why now of all times. It was, he concluded, for diplomatic purposes, a red herring.
—It’s nothing. Let’s go home.
~

Some sort of sick kick from it. Must be. Perverse. Inaudible mutters, more than a mere mime. Stop. Crank it again.

Whassat he said, marzipan muel. More bloody pop-ups, start of the day, the sec I go near it, starts pushing you round, near dare and down the stair. Magic pen. Screens are for tourists, juss look at ArseboK. Ulterior motives, but I diverge. Indian summer of the Tory Party. Dangerfield did it for the Libs. Farewell Georgiana, brief encounters with bliss in the grounds of a country pile. You know I met Lloyd George? Yes me father told me when I was knee high to. Stop.

Dint of it I ask you. that was eerily early the mist was. Turd stone from the sun. Judd blink & youd mishit. Bollox to Bognor. South of a bog. Stands it up for reason? Process of elimination, my weird Watson. Je never said that. I know. Know. Know. kNow. Comma. Odd the things that float. Waters off Clyne for egg proffers darn good stretch of the leggings.

Hit anything now. you could always put a light on blindfold. Break up this bliss when something’s amiss. Stay in touch. Of course or perhapsy.

Sure you’re a lang aukd time lone sun. Down tto the cardboard. In mere wheeze dan won. Get gone with you. juss being sillier. Look Ma no hands left! And various other bits to boot. Attstops inbetwean. Love comes in shirts. Buy one get one knee. Death on the High Street. Peepul turn wahey. Selfies with my new friend Dr. Dear-Dept.

Lokk wow it trndz. So now lingo bingo gets born. A gnu renascence occludes.
Broke through the ice. Just slipped out. Popped. Automatically. Reports dismissed on superficial coffe grounds. Wrong water fonts. Matter of dulce et decorum. Costume & Pack Ice Frobisher. Methodolology. Sjould be a Church of it upped. On. Ward. Armies argue over refs. Wrong type of earrings. Lackings of the daisical dEpartntt. Not future innit. Means mean ends. Conveyancing. Todays lesson a reading from the Book of Herman Two Sticks. Drumroll. Bugger Bognor. Famous lasts. Me or the wallpaper beyond my means sod under other sod. Blessems. Ashtrays to ashtrays. Divil first by a nose. Heaven’s Above put down. Fetlock snap. Juss bending down to pick up a pea. Pop! That’s your lot pal. Here’s some teeth to gnash while wailing.
A bum’s tear it was, a caskful of stares, cleaved, spigotted, deerstalkered, up for the rout, no soft feelings you understand, throbbing nasal duct, precursor of girly weeps, matinee idol what fell from Grace. & herself a married wannabe. Book of Life lies. Untouched on yonder coffee table. Walnut inlaid, caryatids. Lot of time input, hobbies. Tender acts of wooden love. Down memory lame. See who that is coming up. Bugger me the bishop. Late of Bath and Wells. Jaunty little mancub. Tells frequent tells of pewstuff. Ups and downs. Exercise really. Stiffs turn left on the way out. That’s you told, milad. Conscripted belligerent over traces kicks. Bit off more than is proven chewable. Gumshield orange peel. Never failed me yet. Charming ickle mancub. No sado of a doubt about it. dribbling desert wine in the naval cavity. Fortify the under fours. Whatever gets you through the night Kris. Mantle of moi dreams bladder wracked by marbles…

Pyx

Third tercile 2 0 1 6

commences picture speck elation ship: a nascent summer day breaks nice enoughly mice stir droppings, benign idle slanted hues define clandestine marigolds staring Moonlight fed by dawn day succubus
Crawls inside dirty stop out loony…

INTERIOIR –
Zoo room
Caged leopards prowl plaintive Hoot of timid owl dark as it is I must wake
feeling got up out of it: thus everso Miffed.

—Just Me. Huh? said lone drone Grumpy-Poohs, too much cakes and twisted tricycles
It is…T u es d ay…the second of a u gu st 201 6. Aussie Marxists talking Turkey jiblets Scribbles jog minus slog? Indwelling, mon armour. Spotted reification: University challenges meltsway Poxy sleep. Ratty. Wet now—dry later. So it is. Get dat desk fit for purpose:
Why bloody wires must conspire.

—Alright
Alrighht!
…I’m doing it
NOw

Sprint write it off quick (take your time: hurry up). Ja vole— yes a shower later, later.

Alright
Alrighht!
…I’m doing it
nOW

Why can’t you see I’m busy (trying ). Agitated, creepy presence. Out, out doggone spot. Go luvverly up your shelf. Don’t wanna be no dreg, after all. Handbag lady laces blue suede shoes. Cognisant of the morning news Under my skin up my nose round & rounder in my lank hair trite sprite clings onto dawn gloomdross Comely maiden dross— Out, out, out. Count up Damn Tasks: garden, self, showers, trowels Etwas anders noch? Durrgh…
~
Bleak as House out there Marigolds coshed by moonlight Lovely up you whelp
Shin up Mt Nose to eyeball tarn Stray lank hair in dank light socket
Unplugged juggernaut Shipwreck: Lady Queen of Bluesgrinds out loud love’s
old sweet songs over tureens Gave up the ghost writing it was time to break free
Put on the rashers Will it be Coffee or Tea?

Kissed unenthusiastic neighbours A pond farewell Stray lank hair nags bloodshot eyeball stings like hell (toasted two old roadies to get said freak show on the road) Fifteen minutes first thing first chomp an oldie, smoke, drink A pot of coffee & Unleash Cabbage effluent on an unssused speck Five hours buggering around – WAX – hair free website (Why?) airheads ponder tedium Get cracking on now —that’s better isn’t it?
Old hobbits die (hahahaha) hard
‘’…’ate a
B E L&T—S ?
(B a co n
Eg g
L e tt u ce
A nd
To ma t o—
S an dwi c h)

Royal Naval Robe without a belt (or hat): flapping & dangling around my chaps droopy tippets or Tom-Tom Baker’s dozen scarfaced In Doctor Who’s Who used to (the gown not the belt) looking quite dishevelled, I suppose two way mirror crack’d don’t dare to look if I were in your shoes—think with a long head on might it not put you off your elevenses and/or twelves’.’

After glum surgeons cut off my cutesy whiskers post fungal strife erupts maintained some decorum despite such besmirchment overcame survivor guilt for it only Takes one snip—
Eine kleine Augenblickchen

So it was as sure as eggs Is eggs is egg is Big questions cropped up At the heel of the hunt
avaricious prying eyes huffing sighs mock analyse occidental suicides—geiger counter never stops Weighing up the pros and cons Of cannibalism’s Human rights record
By focussing on bogus outcomes both Positive & negotiable elephantine silences
break wind and titter uncontrollably inside drag’s ragged hedge fledgling zoot suits sibillate on saxophone sedge
‘Each one counts’
‘yes, of course it does: each
And every one counts one more ’

Apricockerollie

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A funny thing happened the other day, but I missed it.
Troy fell again

it appears
It barely got a mention
With all that was going on
Round here
What with the weather changing

The permanent fishy smell
The limping gormless misfit
~

As a ballerina in transition
from one side to other there is one question
I get asked above all others
And that is
‘Have you met with much resistance?

I can say hand on heart
‘Little’ without fearful contradiction
But I care not a jot in my summer frock
Running amok
fetching Apricock

Phaedra mulls one over

dizzy-gillespie1

 

 

…imagined voices fail me
reaching out fingertips
feint falters fresh breath ceases
frosting sugar window pane—
but will it not hurt coy purity
long preserved immersed in strange pastimes
dressed up in white flowers curled up in a maze
suntanned cheeks stained modest saline?
Turn deaf ears
Dark at night prayers plead
cowardice makes mere conscience swagger
wild beasts track scented letters
those screaming cronies of crazed Bacchus,
brash lively nags rear ended up the Apple Cart
hear them now all fallen whelping
biodegraded in cardboard hoppers
yes clasp you knees up tight as divers
forced to take the plunge into the myrtle pool…

Twelfth Night Fiasco

Elsie Gassbang-Trott
always told it like it was-
essentially transvestite
noble by disposition
or by dint of nature—
girls will be the boys
& the boys will be the girls:

Whatever you want
Twelfth Night of twelfth day

—Now is the winter
of snide discontent—
Wrong Play, Belch
Burp, barf, bark…
Enter broken head:
Well, why you did ask!
~

Coming up three in the sub-post office, rain, pretty dull, quiet, the games have started, think I’ll take a break, go below for a quiet smoke, finish my too sweet coffee; brains gone native, so to speak, not responding to all this gender swapping on the company wireless.
I can see the Puritans giving out soon if they don’t put a sock in this…
~

—No
more cakes & ale, Toby-Baby
Think I’ll forge a billet-du or two
Set the ball
Gallivanting mad
in love’s tacky bagatelle

—Pray,
entreat those three interlopes
loitering by the knick-knacks
come hither nuncles
excorcise the stable stench
with bawdy ballads:

Feast of Fools, Feast of Folly
Indented coastline
enchanted Adriatic
Harbouring novelties
under your nose, Malvolio
Ship of Folly, Ship of Fools

Harlekan Tears

The noose was too loose; the trap door stuck.
‘Lydia Steptoe, you are, by dint of serendipity, free to roam the earth, jejune and fancy free’
The voice removed the sack. It was Mr Kipling.
‘James Hayter?’
‘None other’ said James Hayter, glowing with avuncular warmth
‘Are you pulling my leg?’ said Lydia.
‘No, dear lady. The rules are clear as almond slices. Now off you trot, and sorry for the cock-up.’
Hayter doffed his manky indigo topper and indicated the door marked ‘Exit’
The lights went orange. The cluster of onlookers began to hop on their right legs. Lydia stepped down from the rickety scaffold and scuttled toward the door. Before pushing the bar she turned
‘For what was I condemned to hang, James Hayter?’
‘Wasting court time with mediocre card tricks’
‘Seems a bit harsh’, she thought nodding mock penitence

Outside it was dark. The cathedral bell rang six-fifteen. A Hansom cab was waiting. The driver smiled a welcome. Lydia jumped in.
‘Where to, Lydia Steptoe?’, said the Cabby, ’My name is Sylvia Sims’
‘Hounslow please, Sylvia Sims.’, said Lydia, ‘and don’t spare the horses.’
‘Right you are Ma’am’.
Sylvia cracked the whip, off they sped

Hounslow was beautiful. Lydia cried.
‘Here we are, Lydia Steptoe’, said Sylvia Simms opening the carriage door with consummate aplomb.
Lydia composed herself and blew her nose on the black satin curtain before jumping out. Sylvia caught her and they kissed at last.

Love hides in familiar faces.
Love hides in the strangest places


Lydia Steptoe was falsely tried on trumped up card-trick charges. Sylvia believed it beyond all reasonable and unreasonable doubt. With Sylvia beside her Lydia found it easy to forget. Without her she never stopped thinking about it, talking about it, dreaming about it. She knew she was losing her mind, but what could she do?

Sylvia Sims knew this too and was uncomfortable with her chosen role. What could be done to help? How was there to change it? Her cabby work afforded her the leeway to sniff around Hounslow. What if she found out what had really happened. What then? How would Lydia cope when she found out. Sylvia was stuck until …

‘…and the one that got away, eh, the little doxy…’
A pair of Siamese twins had paused beside the Hansom to have a smoke.
‘the Girlies are most displeased, there’s mutterings of sacrifice’ said the other half. The rest was about shoes. They finished their pipe and left, leaving Sylvia Sims curious. She followed picking out the odd word above the traffic’s din.
‘…Cakehouse…Marlowe…Ben’
The Siamese went into a Mrs Hopper’s Milliners. Sylvia trotted past. Was she losing her mind as well?

‘And so it follows, that the Siamese twins know something…’
Whoa! Hold your horses, thought Lydia— a League of Siamese Twins inveigling naïve young lesbians into performing absurdly in Court, and then fitting them up with Capital offences. Surely, not. It simply made no sense. And the overheard words. The murder in Deptford that implicated Christopher Marlowe. Why would Siamese twins be talking about that? None of it added up, Sylvia was losing her mind. She would have to be very kind to her.
‘You are very kind to me, Sylvia Sims’ said Lydia, shuffling the deck.


‘We’re all stark raving here, Sir. It’s a certified madhouse’ said Lionel Barrymore, pulling on his long clay pipe in a broad Norfolk accent.
‘Yes, I know Barrymore I live here’ said Marcel Duchamp’s sadistic first cousin, Matt Mutt, kicking the legs from under Barrymore’s milking stool. The venerable thespian fell to the floor with a sickening thud, blood trickling from a nostril.
‘Not this time you don’t’ growled Matt Mutt and finished him off with a handy gargoyle.

‘What about a trip to the coast, Lydia Steptoe?’
‘Which one, Sylvia Sims’
‘…the Norfolk Coast’
‘Yummy!’ said Lydia, hopping with joy.

‘Bring me John Clare, Mister Lush. I will with him gas’ said Matt Mutt
‘Yessir’ said Lush, ‘Rightaway, sir’ and duck walked down the corridor. Matt Mutt spun playfully on his shooting stick in the epicentre of the panopticon.

‘It’s like driving back through time, Sylvia Sims’ said Lydia Steptoe as they neared Braintree.
‘Yes, like turning back the clock.’
Two days steady progress, sleeping under the stars, living off bread and cheese,
drinking cold, stewed tea. Bliss.

The jester morriced up cautiously to the parked Hansom, giggles and yelps issued
from the gently rocking cabin in the gently mocking rain
‘What’s that?’ said Lydia Steptoe, sitting up abruptly
‘Tinklings, little tinklings. Sweet little tinklings’ said Sylvia Sims, kneeling.
The tinkling stopped. Sylvia stuck her head out. It was a harlequin.

‘Hello John, how are we today?’ asked Mutt of Mad John Clare, who stood on the threshold adorned with pondweed and wode.
‘Newton. I have been Newton’ said Mad John Clare with a nod and a wink.
‘Did you thrive, dear John. did you fare well?’
‘Farewell, Master Mutt. Have I not just arrived?
‘Very good, sharp John. Now, let’s cut to the chase—have you any words for me?’ said Mutt, quill poised over paper.
‘Alligators like potatoes, carrots favour oliphants, whispers mimic silent shouts, craven alma maters fade to grey.’
Mutt wrote it down fast, his tongue protruding in rapacious avarice. Mad John Clare began to jig. First just little footsteps, then spinning and leaping, and falling writing floribundant on the cold marble floor.
‘Lush! Lush! Come take him to the icebath, he fugues’
Lush swiftly despatched Mad John Clare, pulling him away by the hair, screams echo like a wild cat down the long gallery.

Why must one feel the urge to disclose all, to give it away, to confess in bundles? thought a rain sodden Will Kempe. People may not, after all, be as stupid as they look. And there is great humour in subterfuge. There is until it gets out of hand, then everything unravels. Yes, the simpler the better
‘Sir, you are in distress?’ Sylvia enquired from the Hansom, pulling up her ruffled drawers.
‘No, ma’am. Just Morris dancing, bound for Norwich. A nine day wonder!’ Kempe said dripping, forlorn with mock gusto.
‘Good Lord! You’ll catch your death!’ Sylvia Sims upbraided the pathetic harlequin with intense dismay
‘Who is it Sylvia Sims?’ said a hot, dishevelled Lydia Steptoe from behind.` ‘Will Kempe is my name, invisible lady. Minstrel and actor.’
‘But you’re dead’ said Lydia Steptoe
‘Lydia! Really.’ Sylvia Sims exclaimed, ‘How could you?’
Will Kempe wept Harlekan Tears…

The World of Sport

henry flower

Crozier Family

City versus Stoke in the fourth round of the cup, then Upstairs after the match for a tidy and Risorgimento – should take a couple of months off life. Fingers cold from window draught, sky greying: still winter. Word wordsmiths are unworthy.

Bring the Poe-book for advice and guidance for the bland, then subvert and pass the Tish-ooze. Dead forum, as predicted. Two mush to be bovvered now that sprung is spring. Two robins say it all; muddy dogend of winter lingers. Eddie Butler is a pompous, verbose Welsh git! Ireland versus Whales! Watery Gravy Boat: Crazy vicar eats wild gerbil in ruminative horror! Ask GK for divine divination without deviation or fingering. Crozier those behind yer back! Prestidigitations.

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The Scrunged Wotsit

Aloha from Haywain-Ho! Attenuated morning endeavour, the cringe and cower again fear I: domestic interventions such as the dilate regard of cathedral candles, floppy hats in white shadow, crows car…

Source: The Scrunged Wotsit

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