Our Zero is back.
Huzzah, huzzah…
Back triumphantly from Nodl,
festooned with laurels,
plaudits,
smelling of spring fresh mint and lavender thongs.
– Have a cigar!
– Thunk yew muchly…
Don’t tow:
Shell.
Wish like new comer: wash like an old comer
…say lurvee, say lurgair.
Life’s so unfair.
Weeps lots.
Drugstime;
coffee two.
Get down, hep kat!
Pickled pumpkin head in a Pipkin!
Whatever will they think of nexty next…
jugged hair, lungs tongues in arsenic, potted wimp?
Russian guy stabbed dead
When he said
That prose had
Superiority
Over poetry
Seven brothers owned
seven separate farms:
while related,
they found themselves in quite
different fields
DO.
wee
bark
DI
trash bin day dark
old metal pan sky,
scoured by grey blue sick traffic
air, hanging like a cowl or shroud.
Sky waits wind
to blow another shoulder
of squalor.
Dream: got up and walked away from
the dingy flint wall office;
going quicker,
just missing walls on corners.
I realize
I
am on a bicycle.
At the main road,
tourists wave from cars and campers.
I watch a couple getting horny
in the sitting room of the guest house,
I cycle in disturbing seated groups.
A small woman with tight knit jet black hair staggers backwards and falls
back
on a carpet upholstered settee laughing excitedly.
Roaming about,
people read papers.
We speak of what they are studying.
They drift off and out.
A
group are gardening for their board & lodging, pulling up shrubs and bushes.
‘Looky-lookky round, ya’ll!’
another bad utterance,
‘The centre ground…’ the voice said.
‘…but the centre is missing’
said a Talking Head.
Milk & (so much) More mail me:
‘Grimmy, beat the heat with a summery shake!’
Little do they know; out of the mouths of babes and
Sucklings.
Chucklings all round, paroxysms
Epileptic fits
Now,
That’s a bone-fide
Summary shake.
Showered thoroughly, racket of motors and gardeners ergo
no P&Q – which should be minded at all times. Pills taken
after scotch egg and salad. Sit outside in the din? Coffee & Fag first,
Friday afternoon slope off early. Bone piece on Hacek okay,
Strike Magazine – check it out, maybe subscribe. Need something
softer under my bare arse. Where was I? Coffee and fag.
There are yellowfish
crying out
for a poach.
We approach seven.
It is evening:
drinks on the patio,
freewheeling banter, laughs , and snacks.
Tapas lovingly prepared.
The lugubrious air
memories of summers past.
Dreamtime in a word.
The smoked haddock will stop yelling soon.
Green or black olives, Daphne?
Are they pitted?
By my fair hand.
You are the one, aren’t you…What’s that sound?
Fish snoring.
Tee-hee-hee…
Tarmac patch water tower
wood stump clearing dip
and two
little double roundabouts,
flat binocular
white nipples
sullied by tyre smear,
skids, and fast
turning people
rushing to the bomb
plant past gypsy site,
through wood and common bends
and twists and dents
to the Falcon’s nest…
A blind, dead driver
in front
slows and
indicates all options
before a left at the lights opposite
a set sun of cheap stuff
and loss leaders
that call the believers
and sinners to shop.
Grimbeau 