Orpheus hummed lullabies
to his underpants.
High time
for a change,
he surmised.
so
He got up
and walked out
through the wall.
Arcadia was a drag;
The Underworld sucked;
Olympus was passe
Pizzarea
That was it:
Four Seasons
all day special
weatherwise
Dusk’s here (round half four),
falling to a soundtrack:
Jumpin’ Jive,
Cab Calloway.
1943
Cab?
Must be short for something.
All I can think of just now is
Cabellero
though I have no faith in it.
Surely, no-one would be called Cabin,
or Cable.
Not for a first name anyway.
Well, I’ll go to the foot of our stars!
It is Cable.
Spelt Cabell.
Something to do with cowbells?
Perhaps.
Wild notes:
A bit of a whopper!
Had to get these down before I got stuck
cheroooted to the table.
Thanks to Danny Baker.
Warmed my butt and sacrum
with the oat and lavender bags
flicked through the morning stations for
distraction,
inspiration,
information –
in short, company.
Other voices.
Came across the Danny Baker Show,
a show I like and always forget to listen to
I am so bogged down in my listening ways.
The item was about Greenland’s timezone-less centre;
how they called it Greenland because Vikings
wanted to deter invaders from their cherished Iceland;
another item mentioned ‘thundersnow’
and I was away. Up for it, writing came first
and I made some jots:
These are they.
Saturday mornings Punk Odyssey
Drongo pomes dialogue.
The Vanmitzvah;
little feral red van
becomes
big red van/bus does
not stop at my gate.
Passed by a boy: came back a man.
Returned, emerged.
Apple in a football ground.
Thundersnow on a lowlight
Growing colder fast,
sat wrapped up under
duvet,
sporting historic giant purple Woolly.
‘Long Arm’s, hasn’t he?’ said the mother knowingly.
‘Yes, very’ replied the daughter: curtly.
Cutely.
The arms on the blue one are very odd
The measurements were given over the
Telephone:
In real time.
So right on
Bump and grind.
Sweat & simper.
Pass the crimper,
Adrienne, got a right one ear.
Scissor schwesters steeling snippers.
Castration: a Tomean’s rite to shoes.
Sweetbreads and old heads tail the culprit,
The lactiferous Mrs Vase. Yes, shedunnit.
With the wimple in the temple,
aided and abetted by Drudge, the Sphincter.
A distincter demon was there not.
This side of Hieronymus Dosh
Prologue
Red Herring shoal. McGuffins abound. Agatha’s back. Faceful of Smack. Drowned. In the sound. Underground…
1
Pulled blinds pulled subtitle series
murder english mustard.
French will do.
Split pea, lentil soup: very nice, very nice. potful in your own time.
As evening wars on.
More demands.
Unconditional surrender not enough.
Stuck on shortie. Whimsical worries. Dalkey Park/Ride. Derivatively yours.
Not there so where? Fret work…hides something else, a secret wish, an unfulfilled desire to…
Flop.
2.
Half-five already
my life in the bush of goats where daisies
dongle in the dingle stirry, nervy, limp-lame, leopard.
Wednesdaze. Born too young, slept in late.
Dazybones dozing in the dun.
Docherty-grey blue moon of
Nantucket Sleigh Ride
In place of dreams:
Streams.
Steam Packet
Steams
Big white
SS Hooper
Smiles
Mallards dive South
In Autumn
Turin shrouded
hemp sack fog
vanished
Will there be Candles?
Yes or No –
Combustion
Good, that stopped the table wobbling!
Went out for a quiet garden moment,
just as I was warming in the soft sun
of early autumn, the army commenced
lawnmower war next door. Disappointed my
plans were scuppered, but undeterred to gain
nothing from my venture, I fetched the washing
from the line and back indoors, though failing
to spur the idle into action, I
consoled myself with the thought of green socks.
Prizing open cocoons
from inside drains
a body dry.
Such a struggle!
The sheer effort!
Yet, for me, somehow compelling;
the ecstasy of sublime writhing.
Hunger drives it.
Just can’t stop it, help it,
like the test your
strength hammer and bell.
Timing is all.
Breathe, hoist, slam.
Or perhaps a
better metaphor is
Greco-Roman wrastling?
A Dormouse in a
stapled paper bag,
rampaging like a
fart in a trance.
is fatuous:
Oryx in a coconut
gives a notion
of the dimensions,
but at least the fear of asphyxiation is passed …
(The discerning, attentive and functional
amongst you will realise that I am on a rest break).
1
Sun inside, sun outside, hens free.
It’s quarter to three: to my right is a hyacinth blue hyacinth,
elsewhere a dove coos.
Why no workies?
Smirkies, shirkies, quirkies…
Focal plane down the drain.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
2
Woke on the water, choir in the sky.
Lost habit, out of the swing.
Naked apeshit visit.
Longers.
Two two two will not do: simply nots.
Time not spent at it.
…
Pomes and yarns roam and darn days, nights, hours and showers: eats, drinks, & sleeps. That’s the trick, Mick.
Here’s a right one.
Duck!
Crystal was shattered. Ratty Vanfrau was at the ablates again. Queer going altogether. Formegandros was a right old wrench to leave. Never spurn a taverna. Still tempers fugit…
`His head’s gone.` observed the rookie.
‘Tis the time of year for it.’ said the chainsaw massacre cast.
‘Not that bloody rubbish again.’ Cried the crowd, aloud.
Castlemaine was a horny bitch for King & Gentry alike. Insatiable in cerise tights, pacing the Home Office, looking frantic for a booster.
‘She cooked your goose, Sir.’ Said the minion, Vince, up for a good twatting.
‘As waltzers go sir, she’s a dodgem.’ Castlemaine stomped.
Grimbeau 