Square Tonsure
Ineffable moments of bugbites:
nostalgia
Nettles and Dock leaves
Discarded cheap bleach bottles
No Orchids
A paper robe
Roentgen and Kropotkin
Dance in yellow fields
Of Rapeseed
And bananas
Grimbeau
Scroodles
Category: Prose poem
May 13, 2013
This little piggy went…
Half-eight and getting dark,
night falls over,
gives up the day,
and slumps,
snoring till tomorrow morning, when it wakes
frozen and dank
in a ditch
called Monday.
If summer comes, what shall we be?
Drunken loons cavorting in the cups of memory:
escapees, refugees, and philanderers, rusting in the sun,
never sleeping,
corroding in the night,
spongers in the morning’s dew:
mist as a vat.
Or, just the moiety of a tanner,
half a sixpence,
belted and braced,
suited and booted.
All dressed up
nowhere to go.
Related articles
- Loons in the morning mist (captainkenscloud.com)
May 10, 2013
ASBOTOXIN!
Anyfingoze:
honky-tonk Joanna,
purple pile alto…
Brute guster out on the Prairie Chook,
crimson tulip sunglimpsing behind wild rose
and gooseberry bushes.
Shag and Puffin simper,
Whirled without world thru the World,
harmless & homeless.
Mayfair millionaires fester in lambsmilk.
Moustaches buckle in the Martian breezes.
Megaratsingers flip baked beans in the crystal nightsun.
Weeds walk
and
troops Foxtrot on the lake:
Hunger is an energy.
May 7, 2013
Horse Feathers Forest
Run out of town by a bunch of shit traders who wanted my ass for burgers. Now I crouch, beaten up bad with a missing hoof iron; skulking on the edge of a forest. East of Eden and West of Wedlock, pretty much nowhere. We had to pull up at the cross because I went lame and the wheels went wonky after the chase.
Lucky to be alive?
Well, no-one in their right mind knows, do they? Pass me an analyst: I’m a hungry horse! Gestalt and fries, run it through the jungle, motherfuckers.
Love is lord of all!
So says that poncey little Nightingale posing on my snout making snidies about my long nose, having a laugh at my expense. Snap! Missed him, little punk! These parasitic bastards only hang around to eat my bugs and look pastoral. Stick the picture on a box of smarmy chocks, get obese, and be a celebrity.
Nothing to do in the evening, see nobody apart from the devil and go nowhere but bed. This is no life for a big horse. Why did they not just finish me off when they had the chance? Well, I’ll tell you why – they do not have the fucking guts. Can’t risk losing face, being found out, taking responsibility? You are one of them, insecurity in numbers, fucking lemmings the lot of you.
Fuck, I’m crying. Big boulders hit the forest floor and make great lakes where small things can thrive. The Crow Fascisti perform mourning manoeuvres. Dreamt last that some chestnut filly wanted my foals, no face: even my head is taking the piss! I’m out of here.
Piss off owl – twat! No ostrich, I do not want a fucking Pontefract cake. And you idlers in the canopy can shut your holes and take a powder. I’m thirsty.
April 11, 2013
It…
Then
breaks clear, steady indigo day,
one star awake in the west, cautious
action on the horizon;
nerve
ends flapping on the wind, nerve ends
like underwater shrubbery,
waving and posturing,
sometimes
leeward bowing; sometimes starboard:
a massed rank of constant certainty.
I claim the right to dream in words.
Yesterday
afternoon I ate two
chocolate chip cookies,
the straws that broke the camel’s belly,
and now everything is blubber
& stool.
April 11, 2013
Muggletonian Homesick Blues
I have thought more quickly than I can write;
milk monitors;
good brandy & fillet steak;
gargantuan thirst;
the English;
nonsense;
the death of the left;
rain & clutter;
sign on you crazy Diamond;
suffer any wrong that is done to you rather than come here;
the state is an unnecessary evil;
the phones do not work.
Grimbeau 