Grimbeau

Scroodles

Category: Prose poem

September 2011

september snackfood

Pull the curtains and reveal that wow sky.

Thin cloud sculpts a convalescent moon:

wondrous shivering sad silver presence.

The clouds permit this harbour of  head space

Provoking basks to chill before dumb dawn.

Then watch through the fan window,

gaze past the submarine aerials and chimneys

and glimpse a fulsome face on Kerry’s mad coast.

Promenade across sad Bantry and stark Beara,

then southward to Baltimore and the big seas.

When bright dead and other sleepers cop this

they abandon calm: and bark wild with wonder.

Trout Bridge Test

English: fire sprinkler

Epic phone call underway

Mutti’s birthday

Nineteen forty three was it?

Wind sprinkles hose droplets:

Sprinkler.

Faux summer afternoon:

Shower how it’s done.

Easy racial stereotypes

Sturmers

Drangers

Blowers

Errors

 

Spiv summershadowspots:

Forget me pink wotsits

How reminiscent of one

Who threw the bathwater

Out with the baby bio.

 

Send in the Drones

A honeybee (Apis mellifera)

Wasn’t that sick?

Are you aware?

Me lying dead on the ground,

You in mid-air.

Send in the drones.

 

Didn’t it miss?

How can they prove?

One who keeps tearing around,

One who can’t move.

Where are the drones?

Send in the drones.

 

Just when I’d stopped opening wars,

Finally knowing the one that I wanted was yours,

Making my entrance again with my nonchalant air,

Sure of my lines,

No one is there.

 

Don’t you love force?

My call I fear.

I thought that you’d want what I want.

Sorry, my dear.

But where are the drones?

Quick, send in the drones.

Don’t bother, they’re here

 

Isn’t it sick?

Isn’t it clear,

Losing my timing this late

In my career?

And where are the drones?

There ought to be drones.

Let’s get out of here.

In Fear of Place

Our Red Scarfes

Mike Foot died yesterday.

My

mind flew to

the Bevan biography:

when I read it

how I felt.

Then

there was the Scarfe sculpt of him laying crumpled

in a duffel coat with a mop for hair

and spine

This

was soon after

Scarfe had done ‘the wall’

cartoon movie sequences with pink Floyd

who were busy floating inflated pigs.

Huston and the Moby Dick

latex whales,

cast adrift by a seastorrm and floating

about the cork coastline endangering shipping.
Poor Mike,

a bit like

the latex whale himself,

as he got swamped

by the ugly tory juggernaut,

and the middle class parasites of the sdp fiasco.

I heard Owen belching out some shite

about Plymouth after the war, Argyle etc – what a dick!

I have dreamt about being looked upon with

general disapprobrium

for

frequent use of this word,

smacks of a bit of

adolescent muckiness.

there

was this thing on the radio about

Salinger and I was full of shit last night,

so it’s understandable.

rain stops play

Wackford Squeers

Pinball and Dickens, it will rain soon: the window will be shut.

Our hero is unwashable.

His father done bad investments.

Cold uncle with the sneery clerk do not help.

What is worse is that is he must go

faraway from this familiar terror

work for Squeers and dwell in his world.

Back in London the dirty oiks cheered him

on his way and gave him a letter.

he did not read it, forgot it.

We worry about him.

He drops the letter, retrieves it from the carriage floor

and reads:

‘…you can come at night. My spilling has gone with my wallies. Pops.’

 

 

 

Humpfrey

The Fool

Bogart rides dumb waiter to Casablanca.

Greenstreet in fez and white suite whips flies dead.

We whisper secrets in the Fool & Bladder

The spies, Leech & Lamprey, eavesdrop us.

Landlord Russ Catt, Suffolk stone-licking champeen,

claims Henry the First once choked on this spot

in fourteen-fifty-three. Throbbing bulbous

bloodshot eyes are persuasive. Once he licked one

thousand stones in just one hour. Languid lipped,

pueumatic limbed, a gurgle ball of gungey

frogspawn in his throat. We departed when we

had heard him out feeling modestly pissed.

Betrayed by Biscuit Barrel!

biscuit tin

Heroin Sonnet (One line is absent!)

Vermont’s Original Bag Balm tin laments

a pair of glasses (snapped for advertising

porpoises!), the child’s toy tractor, green

gin trapped naturally: there is floral décor

garish redolent of that chocolate

box, or some Huntley & Palmer’s biscuit tin

containing uncut Ammanford smack?

They ran him in, they ran him down: Besmirched

his name all over town. Self-righteous lazy

solemn nonsense! So, all good things must end

in silence. They were wankers and they

knew it; and he, apothecary, James

E. Blewitt refused to play their silly games.

 

 

I am what I am

Sloth

Thursday, 06 June 2013

1:06 PM

‘…a morning of many tempos – pleasant sunshine and a graceful arrival in the crowsnest, a contemplative shower; yet, the insistent repetition of the alarm clock was a portent. On arriving downstairs, I have to confront, singlehandedly, a defiant and barren hen about to ravish the spinach. Staged mayhem results in a cleaning frenzy of the clutter below and the retreat of Sloth in a Huff to her coop after having to do something…’

Popeye spent the rest of the morning ambulating on the zimmer between house and garden: stretching parchment legs, listening to Beethoven, smoking tabs, avoiding dogshit, avoiding humanshit, relaying coffee cups…result: relaxed exhaustion and sunny alienation in the atmosphere of poisoned, silent dispinachment…

Square Tonsure

Square Tonsure.