Rain, sultry rain.
Opaque grapes,
leaden sky fruit,
burst on copious,
oil dark
plush olive,
swooning,
spaded,
luscious leaves.
Three chirrup
kaleidoscope toucans
tenderly engage
a dopey puffin then
hunker down within
the livid dense canopy
to share a light
repast of slender wafers
over a convivial round
of knock out whist.
Tuesdays,
no matter the weather,
is Housey-Housey,
a rainforest favourite
throughout the ages.
Beastlings from yards
Around always
Attend
Suddenly alone
Uncluttered
By
Long pig slurry
Just me
And
Pink
Bluebirds
Wheel
Chair,
egg,
inward bound.
Shit shower splashes
dumb legs,
crud roars, goes mad.
Phew!
Many are called…
Sure up these walls.
Warm and cosy.
The Daily Nostrum.
Lunchtime.
Chilly when the sun goes plug
Ate bits of last night.
Took my drugs.
Green Cold Amber.
Sun in and out.
Epiphany!
Garden excursion with coffee and cheroot.
Stare at puffy blue song swan vistas.
Make an inventory!
A gossamer feather, white as the lamb;
a cutting crowded rusty burner
(By-law say no burning till seven
on dint of death by fire; A plethora of flies.
Cut my Leg? Crimson Orinoco.
The expedition returns to base.
Bloodied but unbruised.
Now,
A medicine ball props me up.
I find myself on a purple furlough
from San Drunken to Alchotraz:
fatter, stupider, floundering
wondering
Why –
which is always a stupid question,
as I well know
(should know better
but don’t).
Regrets?
I’ve hand a few…
Take the air, the quack
said and so we
caught the only sun,
the rest have weekends off,
shining on the righteous
who know who they are,
or have been, or keep trying.
The unlucky ones,
the unrighteous rump,
get no sun,
they know who they are too,
and can’t or don’t want to
do anything about it.
At night they become the majority,
there are just a few
righteous burning most nights,
but they cast no shadow then,
they are the ones
dreaming the same dream
on that special night.
A night that everyone has sometime,
whether they deserve it or not.
A dream like this.
Drowning in the noises of black sea beach,
Ruby boyhood daydream in the winter hall,
transported from dull to duller :
a February vacation.
Call them Martin and Matilda, twins with
no redeeming features, seven years,
staring out the tiny attic window
as the rain came down in bullet lines.
They peeped from the corrugated hay barn
across the weeded concrete.
In that black plastic was a mushroom of horsefeed,
ready to be given out.
They shared secret oilcake to settle the rumbling bellies,
gothic caverns, avenues blood lit and sumptuous.
I cut my nails and parts of me appear
to touch as if it were the first time.
They touch warm scuffed chromium, solid and secure.
A distant puck of patter,
and the churning buttermilk of linen stir and lapse,
contained by the shadow of muttercup.
The
fragmented head surveys itself
quick clips of a factive dream.
The
perspective is from below.
It is indoors.
The
street scene is frugal,
the sky is blue.
The
feeling is anxious
A pressing engagement.
The
train is soporific,
uncomfortable
The
taxi rank is fresh, niggly,
and jumpy.
The
taxi journey is relief
detachment pause
The Antiques Roadshow
A shock ending.
Scrimmed Femur
The
ending is exhausted, querulous.
Sunlit indifference abounds
Lunchtime
News about the news:
Observe basking sharks,
lost lopsided lilies,
slumping in the lagoon
pump waters from people’s homes
busy Nessies, little lochs,
tiny monsters of the shallows.
Waterlogged logs sink from sight,
nervous wrecks shiver
in Lazy Bones’ Locker.
No way, Jose!
Smart Alec McMackerel.
Wessex is the wetland of Alba.
Let it drown.
Paint your bum blue.
Join us: Stay dry.
See Soggies flood North in droves.
Border turnpike takes groats only.
Frack Ben Nevis.
Rip off Groatland.
Yawn. Nodding off…
Done in after all the sleep and squatting…
bills, deeds, duties, musts,
cant’s, coulds, shoulds, woulds;
daydawdledoodles.
Doze snooze nap?
And why not?
Afternoon off again…Tut, tut, tut.
…clear new calm morning
blooms:
bright sky blue, golden glint,
pulsars thrill thawing
laurel leaf and stream.
Grimbeau 