Grimbeau
Scroodles
Category: Prose poem
February 9, 2013
Yellow Wine
Okay, that is one bottle of wine, lots of looking back chats with their accompaniment of sickness and deadlines, and a faceful of Xmas 1980. There I was in love; I brought a stupid woolly dress. In the New Year I became a writer who did not write, who just though that it would be okay to be a writer and get by. So, the writing in the head started, thought it would just come back to me when I needed it. It didn’t. It got lost in a swirl of events, politics, and society, getting by in difficult and changing times. Poverty and the history of others got a look in from time to time and then again an indulgence, an over-compensation, so it seems these days, looking back from now I just cannot say. It is a habit that I have fuelled and indulged. Time to quit (spilling the beans is never quitting, most times it is a diversionary tactic), and the choices are not options anymore; time has seen to that, inexorably. So, here I am sitting in another rainbow of maybes and what if’s. There are surely not better things to do?
February 9, 2013
Lyre
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.
February 8, 2013
Gormlessgast
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.
February 3, 2013
One for my Baby, and one for the Toad
‘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.’
January 31, 2013
…join the army if you fail.
Pompeach Med crunched the Iceberg with zest and picked the morsels of snow cameleopard with a spear. The day finished perfect with a bungy jump down the Whopper crevasse. There is something about flying krill that you cannot put your finger on.
Grimbeau 