Walt sat on the armchair like a mole
on an
abscess contemplating how much space one can
waste in a single average lifetime:
forty-three hectares, approximately, he concluded,
lobbing his third tin of
Foster’s on the parched hearth…
See, I forget my drift!
I have lost me moorhens.
Scattered mummeries
of the dreams we left behind
in the service station
on a beige plastic table
stuck on a wet floor
A low and rhythmic
mopper
mops
somnambulances.
I see myself in a documentary,
a lone rider resting before the next crusade.
Infidel Castro,
beard and cigar,
flying down to Rio for the show:
No chance of light,
tonight
Knight.
Plod-plod-plod-plod: A quadroplod, called Roddy, Rodders, Rodney
A nod’s as good as a wink to those who cannot see me
I am the king, horse king,
Looking about see the world sideways tyranny
Of my very large nose. Equine whinny
Giddy up halt walk on. Plop chomp clip clop
On harder surfaces. Clunkety-clank pop
So, mind is unravelled, wild vermacello reasoning, synapses fizz, associations of associations. Angsty: funny to the left of, not quite centre, achy uncomfyvibe. Jolt of jilted jollyfellow. Banjo, ukelele, zither, mandolin slicers: Whoa- hihosilva. Away. Halt.
Restless & feckless; turnoverturn; hide yerears and snuggling sure, ssh, sure…
Recklessly & festlessly fetchingly and carryingly penly, paper, cup, and ashtray from chair to bed and back again, never sorted satisfactorily speaking. Saturdynite; Worzbirtheven; head sort ails; factor fix ion; lean back, more meat Ona! Quark and Lard, larkquard. Gilly-Mot: Milly-Got: Golly-Mit: Molly-Git Milly gotta gwilmon. Toot Aussea, toot? Molly git migly log gimly glimmily.
Can’t see the cross in the mindsigh!
Flora & fauna!
Spring, springful Spring!
Colours, poor favour; sunbusting, teeming, running, jumping, coursing spring. Lively up yourselves. Don’t be nod rag. Salalsocalls for soundsand noises: bell, ringtone, beep-beep, pause, beep- beep…gedditto. Puce and greymauve plinthlight cabled. Left lug picks up microwavesounds. Raviolin. Ra-rah-rah-ra…penumbral whatsitsname: hyperbolaparabolatombolaspinbola…the thing lampshades do. Raviolout. Tinkle-tap-softchomp. Bolasalad with; goods tart, goodstart. Goosed Heart, goose dart!
Pipes! They are those are the things that drains are made on: Pipes. Pipistrel just before dawn: blip eesgone:
‘Phew! Hunny I’m home: closecall with big orange thing. Coulda shrunk one up.’
‘Peep!’
‘Ist’
‘rell’
‘Pip’
‘is’
‘trell’
‘Pee’
‘Pisstrail’
Time to get feet up and head down hanging on upwardly: falling sideways dreams. Eastwestnorthsouthwestnortheastwards. Subtle snores. Peepistrell: Phipplepip.
Lurch Stop Halt. Wassup?
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!
Noon finds ersine Neil Young harvest mooning after brunching on the rise. Dervla whirls about the garden displaying gusto and little purpose. The writer formerly known as jfg007 thinks hard about the stoning to death of a disabled person of remote acquaint on the stoney beach at Deal, Kent, in 1986.
Mr Brown often ate steak & ale pie with broccoli, carrots and spuds, all of this topped with generous hunks, nay boulders, of Stilton cheese.
Still nowt from mad Granny Mump, he ruminated. Rushed off her feet by an intense session of gross moral turpitude while being held hostage at Winchester goal after a riotous yoga class of legal high-flyers? Time would tell it different
The chances of getting the versification underway are remote as there are matters financial to attend to. With that done in the break of a lamb’s leg, I am propelled by indifference to another afternoon of…
View original post 74 more words
Woof
Meteors used to be warplanes when I was younger, Comets were for paying passengers, they were the future but they were fatally flawed and crashed to earth. Stealth speaks for itself as does Concorde and although it is a helicopter, Apache or Crow.
As a doodling child I like the Lightning and Vulcan, this changed into the Phantom and the Kite. Now I tend to consider Nimrod and Hercules, but this is just a fancy, meteors are real. So are asteroids.
Plink
Open tuning can be a blessing occasionally, arthritic players swear by it: “Lawdy!” they declare, questioning carpal damage done: hitting the wall repeatedly when in rage and cracking joints to show off were contributory factors, this was obvious.
I have a banjo on my knee even though I do not hail from Alabama. Neither did Stephen Foster; he came from Bridgend and played chess with his eyes shut against a blind man who crushed his knuckles with a rock when he spotted him cheating.
Woof
Meteors used to be warplanes when I was younger, Comets were for paying passengers, they were the future but they were fatally flawed and crashed to earth. Stealth speaks for itself as does Concorde and although it is a helicopter, Apache or Crow.
As a doodling child I like the Lightning and Vulcan, this changed into the Phantom and the Kite. Now I tend to consider Nimrod and Hercules, but this is just a fancy, meteors are real. So are asteroids.
Grimbeau 