Inch
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pock marked pocket penguin
pictures
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Pendine’s Sands mortal,
Golden arrowhawks
.
Hold the knife that kissed Lucretia
one pearl morning in the garden
Taste
opal raindrops
on the counterpane.
When
the cap fits
Go and wear it well.
Grimbeau
Scroodles
Category: Prose poem
October 14, 2014
The School of Varied Knocks
Soft knocks
To shut or open the Zen on the Art of Bridge,
Faust, Kafka – easy listening!
Getting my bearings, settling in, making a mess, feeling awkward.
The Bridge. I know this place well, too well. The scene of the crime, witness to disaster, base misdemeanours, sullied by cleansing agents, violated by animals, jumbled up, dumped on, dumped in.
The Bridge. Here dreams are born, and mares lived out. Stories of horses; hateful verses, grudging verses diluted. These are bad vibes. This time will be different, this is not a retreat. It’s a crucible, a temenos.
The Bridge. A place to prepare yourself in order to be yourself.
to shut or open the door at whim.
Knocks are needed to gain entry.
Hard knocks.
October 13, 2014
Brad the Impaler
Paling to significance,
Brad the Impaler, a pied butcher bird,
whistles a chirpy tune
(Imagine, if you will,
a melodic baritone
bicycle here)
and skewers a shrew for the barbie.
Life read and heard in tooth and claw,
one sighs through clenched teeth.
‘This is all the weather you get,
so you’d best enjoy it…Grrghh!’
says a balaclavad scimitar weatherman.
I will, I will!
Promise I will, croons Brad.
October 1, 2014
Pinch, Punch!
Cheroot in hand up
to the bidet-bog.
Down to
Lamplight:
candle lit,
curtained cave.
The news, the morning news:
Hong Kong Occupy (day six);
first Ebola in the states;
15yr old girl off
To wed a warrior.
Sit and listen,
listen and sit,
sat idly
scribbling
morning drivel.
Back to bed or not? Not.
Wrote a sketch about
The flasher in the night,
Working title: Up the Boreen.
The work, the work!
Exhausting thoughts.
I’m tired. Day is dawning. Pull the curtains open.
…A girl has been found in a London river…
She didn’t make it.
September 22, 2014
Sick Note
A phone rings,
it is a doctor.
He say:
‘I will be late.’
‘Okay’, I say,
‘so will I’.
We laugh
Out loud:
‘Bye-Bye
August 29, 2014
Clacton Calling
Sur le Plage, de l’Or
Under
the beach
Hidden
Gold
‘O’er them dunes,
Cap’n Mudd!’
Says Mrs Hands.
‘…just go left at the war mines,
right at the shipwreck,
and,
Bob’s yer Uncle
It’s just there
opposite Aldi.’
…
Put on, or should it be, donned
John’s bonce on the hob.
Brain versus brawn
is a no-brainer.
Meanwhile…
after a lean while
Herod buys bonking time,
hides it in his Wish Urn
The sheer, brazen
Barbaric
Sauce of the fellow!
‘Chopsy prophet.
Salome’s mum
was a right one
too…’
…
Folkestone Ferry
grounded
On Golden Beach.
Lemmings swarm
Ferreting about.
Dredgers look on.
Dormant
In easy, idle, calm.
…
Just waiting
for the
Ebb to Flow
Uphill
July 6, 2014
Jesters at Vespers
After Sylvester evensong, Loyola piped up:
‘Out with the Pianola!’
And
(As Nasturtiums have for donkey’s years)
We were ready to kick out the jambs
The Easter Lambs & heaven could wait a quarter
Priscilla the Pig, our Abbot, dressed as Emile Zola
Got the ball rolling with the much lauded Tombola.
A fine thing, like some tradition,
The Tombola of the Tropaeolum:
We put our Bull into a hat
Pull out the winner
And a new year
Doctrine is chosen
A fresh true rumour
To add to the credo
This is followed by
A game of sardines
An eternal favourite
July 6, 2014
Factory Records
I
have neither direct pictorial
nor documentary evidence for it,
my first quarter on earth,
except
what those directly involved have told me,
confirmed by their satellites.
All a bit vague if you think about it
The first thought is adoption,
the second hospital error,
third,
unwanted from a relative or neighbour;
alien invasion,
Son of God,
& Timewarps
follow once you start.
(At least it was not Shandy Hall and its annoying horology).
I
did see my mum from time to time
in her incubated space.
She smiled from hollow cheeks
fought the maggots eating the belly wound
from where I had been sprung.
My dad was shy and did not get pushy
about seeing me till things calmed down a bit.
He did not pick me up and rock me till we got home:
After he did I never cried again, it is said.
June 30, 2014
as i rolled out…
Elegiac:
it rolled out one summer’s morning,
thick roll-up in one hand
tar strong coffee in the other,
halted atop the ramp
to take dappled light
took this picture:
green wheelbarrow homes
old yellow milkcrate
left side of
giant cypress treetrunk;
three paving slabs
lean leftside
propping up three
intact mauve
plastic sacks
(compost) .
Generally the earth is parched grey, arid, and ill lit.
This is a gravelly land, conifers did well here till
the buildings cropped up to replace them.
Down the hill is a loamy valley, which floods a lot.
These were the fields where the villagers
who lived up here in the pinewoods worked.
It is called Clayhill
Grimbeau 