Grimbeau

Scroodles

Category: Wireless

Poshlust

Susurrous rumblings
precursors of tumult
Saturday morning berserkers
‘A parcel for you, Suh!’
A Postie declares.
Kashchey the Deathless
Makes merry downstairs
Varnishing rococo baubles
Warm winsome dead soul

Little Omega

No milk

to cry over:

traffic and bollard,

pothole and hedgehog,

flood and folly. All delay delivery.

Try your best without.

Think Wartime,

make and mend,

a stitch in time,

careless talk

costs lives

Wryneck

look out! night just fell
you near on overlooked it
lost in an e-book–lucky
i showed up
the air was sharp
that keen time of year ducky
like it was when we met before
in this deserted trossach where
thought and feeling dance
their cockeyed sabbath

(Isaiah).

Asceneofanewandastonishingnaturethenpresenteditselftomy

view. All the people and nations of the globe, every race of men

fromevery differentclimate, advancingonall sides,seemed toas-
semble in one inclosure, and form in distinct groups an immense
congress.Themotleyappearanceofthisinnumerablecrowd,occa-

sionedbytheirdiversityofdress,offeaturesandofcomplexion,ex-

hibitedamostextraordinaryandmostattractivespectacle.

Mauve tuesday is a rum day,
a bin day, a drab day
a humdrum day
laden down cumbersome
by protocol and melancholia
thus it must
commence with an immodest nosebleed
or a writhing mit of pitted prunes
elsewise
it simply is not worth its salt
nonetheless
wanderers returned from the huzun night
find it irresistible

Warblings from some Distant Spring

Musk demilight– aqua, orchid, tourquoise,
bent over hoodwinked by a flighty moon
reach out to open optimistic windows
admit dunnock chirps & sample crisp ballooning air;
early worms watch dullard ghosts bow out
to head for air conditioned hulks;

silverfish hold out for frigid Juul tides,
white riders & twilit oceansides beg
time out for prearranged red handshakes
in vacant dayglo barns;
many is the slip twixt cup and lip
impatient to get on with it.
It! That meretricious pip.
May had its seventeenth today,
shrunk glorious summer down
to cheap sausage pork,
and in its putrid air a natal
rain exposed a summer still born,
A maid unaware craved its drains to roam,
its culverts to clog―
Saw red rain fell over the temple,
Developed an inability to spit,
And bore witness to a teal sky
Crowded out with bluebirds.
Omens abound like cliches come sweet dusk.

A shootist lazily rakes the gallery
A spotty little herbert called Anomie
Made to menace Venice
Jeopardised the tennis
Liberté, égalité, Débilité –

Close to tears on rising:
an invisible hornet bugs you
you open a velvet blind
What is it that chastises?
Is it a far off chainsaw?
Wash the scuff away
Regret another curfew day
Showered down thorough.
Spent time writing proper.
Fucked it up. Corrected. It worked!

All of this comes to you thanks to a power shower
I stood on one leg blindfold intoning
‘I don’t wanna know her’,
a little keyhole waltz if you will
recounting old times in the Ozarks
Cussing our imaginary friend Zillard.
The lies flow outrageously as spring flood water…
a hot scrub is the prelude to a crisp neo-write supremacy:
A thousand tweets a day and soon you’re washed away.
Like a one legged Willy Lomax, a legend in his own body waste,
wisecracking as he vaporises in a steamy void

Begin over with the goat stew she left out on the table
The cord flex dangling idly in the cavernous hall
The fabulous smell of oily tuna permeates the bamboo wall
Losing a grip of the catchy word makes you chippy
flitting like a teasing fly
The mocking phrase that slights the cliche
Line by line the words drip dry.
Sure now this is nowhere you’re free.

Kris

Dewar saw the fear, read the cower, laughed.
His capricious myrmidons looked the other way.
The bush was sharp, dew damp and dirt dusty.
He jumped before he was felled.
The wounds were evidently self-inflicted.
He makes a habit of this.
Control was all.
‘He’s mad alright’ said Dewar
‘Told you‘ said Trimble.
They melt back in the playtime throng.
Parr helped him out of the bush.
The legs are scratched deep and bleeding.
Why? Contrition is the wetter part of valour.
The big yellow streak dilates.
Might is always right in the name of Peace.
Spring comes slowly up
pissing about to the echo of a toothless mastiff chewing
onea rock with a fiddle, singing of the abducted.
plonked awkward on a mute piebald palfrey

Darning Socks for Sontag

Endured cross stitch ups and venal stings,
incursive pine needles and lupins,
divisive thimbles and tumbrils,
concluded justice must be obscene to be undone
that finger food sucks at Funky Fiona’s,
regretted the futile fracas in Franco’s Head Shop,
and, at the heel of the hunt,
feeling flabberghastly
repeeled a grape for Delilah–
Yes the bummer’s done.
Now sat here the huge jukebox
affecting a timid demeanour
behind purple drapes
we, with blunted needles and bent pins,
darn socks for Sontag.

Kilroy & Cadwallader were here

Entropy ain’t what it was
In the chokey oakum days
The greazy gabardine mack days
The sad brown paper bag days
The dainty doris day days
we were young at heart then
pistol whipping work horses
who toiled in broke up city streets
Hawking stucco frontispieces & smiley culture vulture daubs
You deny that people called Duck did once exist?

An oxygen experience is tough enough to get over.
Personally, I gained fuck all that I want in life no worries.
I am perfectly content in mind and bodybag
Indeed all the tension drops from my body
lukewarm and utterly butterly,
It’s as if I were sitting beside a friendly fire,
Well wrapped up in a crinkly blanket,
rocking gently back and forth.

Communication is unpleasant and unnecessary
Under the influence of oxygen,
You soon see no companionship at all is best
I accept myself and the world just as we are, separate
not begrudgingly,
but eagerly,
ecstatically even.

Wet coal tipples blanket bluffs,
Rusted out coal tipples
blanket breezy bluffs
Twisted track curls up
gnarly knotted toes
Industry was here
Once below a time
Declared unfit by Kilroy & Cadwallader

Samarkand

O for a life less examined, with nothing to be compared and measured by;
then with that overcome, will you bend my shirts for old times sake?
Set your Grimoires aside for rainless, aimless sorrow days;
gambol free in pigeon slippers through Dijon mustard fields;
assume the lifestle of a burgher of Elysia,
We today shall call oursleves Ashfodel & Bergamon,
and make merry in naff herbaceous borders.
First shower carefully perched upon a lofty sill
and do not spill the soap
plunge awkwardly
and become
a pepper speck in the universal wet room lino.
A ferocious fungus grows on my hipbones,
an unsightly ganglia, purpley and pacoderm.
Attribute it to the dim light cast in the black jade mirror.
Those dark atlantic raves play merry hell with the orbs.
A new moon, I hear: what of the old one?
Confer with the owl when twilight holds sway.

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