Mews
In
Seamless
Sleep
I saw you
Gallivanting
A
Sumptuous
Blaze
consumed me
Juvenating
the wake
Grimbeau
Scroodles
Category: Wireless
November 28, 2020
Après Ultra (Diego Marijuana RIEP)
New Grub Street records below for future delectation; and on the ruby doorstep, a letter for Professor Phipps containing a packet of pulverised sage to keep the lonely onion happy & engaged in crazed seasonal endeavours lies. A nuclear fog subsumes Trollenberg as zombies fill the diswashers incanting the curses of Mali and smiling on the memory of Nkrumah’s wizard foxtrot.
‘Maradonna’s dead’
‘Good, but what of little Diego?’
‘Mudlarking, no doubt. Slicing dentures from washed up concubines of the East Indian in inky sepia drab. A crow observes from a tendrilled groyne. All is muted, unspectacular. Waters lap. A heat pipe giggles in Abrasia.
‘Will he wash?’
‘In good time, when opportunity arises.’
‘The crusty stench is beyond the daily luminal’
‘Crud!’
‘Poor wee Diego’
November 18, 2020
Dudes de l’Etoile
Covered in purple dark spots is if mauled by myrtle spores, I changed under and over shirt. In The Hirsute of the Millennium we soon learn it is for the best to indulge both Brabancons and Chevaliers− flip sides of the dominant coinage−praise them equally in the font of(_^′)spare methe hassle′ italics^′
We try again to toll the bell where Zen flows, seems afar the berg of Grim juts apostate on the jagged skyline. Marauding friars and godless nuns make merry in the meadow hereabouts− Maddered children of the House of Love accursed by local soaks and wizened sinners that frolic mustard green and orphic twisted in night’s duplictous shade, St Salacious dribbles Augustinian ale on the mellow mass come Sabbath. The House of Nassau lives on the tithes and indulgences thst follow.
Why Wednesday already! No day for godless Chaplains to feel vacant. Hedges and history confound the third eye. Gregory vii is on the prowl for followers of the sacred owl, hounds surround the cuckoo’s nest. Milady is at vespers. Good job that I wear a vest emblazoned with the dripping eagle, venal thyrsus and divine cheroot. Plague confounds both mind and body politic.
‘The world’s gone nuts’, a little one shouts. All the elders hoot, A flash mob gathers. The child repeats: ‘The world’s gone nuts’, the mob chants back,
‘Eudes de l’Etoile…
Eudes de l’Etoile’
November 17, 2020
You is the One
Herr Hemmingway’s new fangled card tricks garnered whoops of ghoulish euphoria; cryptic brevity entranced the maidens in the downstairs parlour. Whip cracks of girlish giggle and pinch play pierced the dour scourge of curfew night. A carriage pulled up before the sombre granite Manse. A parcel was delivered in speedy silence.
Casaubon ate freely of the doctored truffles. Mary Ann rested back to wait the denouement, puffing gaily on her long clay pipe and petting Daniel Absconda, her Sicilian spaniel. All would be revealed next Monday in The Infidel if they were spared.
*
Silas Marner pitched up unexpected the following day, dressed in limpid russet homespun which reminded Willoughby Dunlop, the virile batman, oddly of withered futuristic inner tubes.
‘Your luculence become you Massa Silas’ Dunlop growled with syrupy menace. ‘Do you bear subversive notions for the mistress?
‘That I do, swarthy vassal of capricious empire, that I do’.
Willoughby scuttled away to disarm her, the sound of his chains echoing through the capacious lobby as he went. A smile of brute rapaciousness broke cross his ashen face.
*
The eagle dripped on Zion as Ezra piled up the faggots in Parousia, Tertullian gazed on amazed on the third day of the shining wall in the morning sky. Nereus took his leisure, replete in still dry oceans. What was in those truffles? Precious time had drifted away. Calypso’s suitors fed the fowl with pith and peel.
‘Nightshirt!’ demanded Funk.
‘I shall be with you shortly; in the fulness of time; post haste; forthwith…’
May Ann appeared at the door, dishevelled, her cheeks a roseate hue, panting.
‘There you are, my dearest. But why…’
‘A spot of bare Pilates for the circulation. Doctor Jasper’s orders.’
A boneshaker hustled over the gravelled drive.
‘Mice?’ suggested Casaubon, aroused.
*
‘So Dude, what’s your beef? I post a lot? I am a friggin writer, a communicator. It’s a subject to object relationship. Intercourse. God proposes: man disposes. That kinda set up. So quit your incessant carping, Buster. Just because my numbers turn out better than yours. Get a friggin life Godammit!’
‘Discouraging words from Herr Hemingway, Adolf. He gets so reckless when he’s on the saucel I’m sure he will come round in the end. We all have our eccentricities. Our peccadiloes and foibles.’
But Adolf was inconsolable.
The rest is
Off course
Is history.
*
Chesney reached inside his great coat pocket and took a slug from the vial in the brown paper bag. The liquor! Dammit the liquor. Huxtable was wrong. He took another swig. It was then she emerged though the Bourbon mist of the cold November carpark. Zelda Zuchenslooper. What a broad.
‘Who you screwing, Small Fry’, she chirruped from some distance, yet somehow audible over the hubbub of a not inconsiderable crowd. All eyes turned on Chesney. He cleared his throat. It was now or never, and he hollered.
‘You baby. Only you. You is the One of it’
Fin
November 16, 2020
Big Ox for Iapetos
The Night of the Bog Heat plays out below as ballooning over Tara above the steam stench peat and course heather the summer thermals waft muesli west to titanium ships that calibrate conditions for the fleet. A neutral landscape unforgettable and unforgiving to the bug eyed.
Drought brought us down with a sharp shallot, shed from an upset colander
Hey Mister Storekeeper, quit that cruel gruel rustic fabric. Don’t leave us besmeared by steerage stirring for a box of frogs! Give up and yield to sunshine and snorage.
Pay off the elders with jalop and deploy quick wits and cutesy metaphors.
So deep the seeds of self-movement sowed. Patience is its own discord said the blueberry to the snail. Adding:
‘Be gone you irksome carry house from this esteemed wilderness. Talented Cromwellingses of all stripes and zealous alkyhorlicks abound in well clad tower blocks throughout the land, I’m unreliably told by sources near to the ketchup.’
Why so sorry? Why so sad? It could be worse; it’s not so bad…
Well, yes it fucking is. It fucking is. It fucking is. It fucking fucking is…
On Tuesday the Twentieth of June 2017 it became, at 5am, 24c and in the corner the fan purred loud. It was sat on a spare chair slowly watching tennis from Queen’s. At the end of the encounter superglue handshakes were exchanged. The combatants wore green flip-flops.
Pink is the colour of my true love’s ears
In the morning
When we rise
Like a fridge over troubled waters
I will cool you down
Chuck bread out the cookhouse
windy for the birdies
For the birdy birds
Slice potatoes down the grain
& fry
Like an eagle
To the sea
Working in the hot sun
uninterruptedly
Egg hard boiled
Tomato sliced
Cumbercu flintly slitheroo
Rindless salami
Door step:
Batch
November 16, 2020
Dorftrottel Allegro
The Faber Book of Neurotic Plants & Fruit lay open at ‘Gallimauphy’ when Inspector Funk arrived. The only witness was a mute cook who went by the name of Chum. The blinds were closed. The only light was marsh gas. ‘This setting is inappropriate’ was scrawled across the artexed wall. Water dripped into a blue trauma bucket.
A surgeon minced nervously from door to door. A fat man rested his eyes in the corner of the crowded annex. Chum was taken off for interrogation in the wet room. The clock was stuck at seven twenty-four. On the lawn red fungi grew in the mulch of scattered yellow maple leaves. The rowan tree was barren. A youth rode past on a black bicycle. his aspect adamant and grey. She was fleeing the clutches of a thousand-armed family that dogged her every move. Belatedly the phone rings, it is limpid doomed Patricia, destined for the abattoir. Funk is lost for words. Platitudes are all he has to offer; he winces at his indifference as he does so. His varicose veins were clearly visible in the low November light.
A chicken jalfrezi and chapati were all there was on offer. His bane, patrolled the galley in the hungry times. Nutrition was rationed out like peter’s pence to supplicants, the law of inbuilt negligence condoned her every move. Chum would be released on good behaviour. He had done nothing heinous. The Faber book of Neurotic Plants & Food was closed and sent to Coventry. Funk gave way to apathy and sniffed the food for truffle spores.
November 14, 2020
Earlier
Remember
reading The Unnameable
in identical weather
this time
last year
and the one before that.
Same old house
but different room this time.
The old lady opposite
was alive
last year.
Now her stuff
is in a skip on the drive.
Saw it from the room I
mentioned
Earlier
November 11, 2020
Theogony
Think I blew it, yet I just dunno—that’s what happens when you stand, put yourself forward, lay it on the line. There is always a train coming, fast or slow. What makes a good loser then?
A hand-snake and a Simeon smile or the sweet compensation of mere participation. At least it was close. You was not crushed. Tomorrow is yet another day. Fire is a symbol. Hubris is a drudge. Just when you think you’re getting somewhere it bites you big time on the bum.
‘Cover his mouth’, they insist, before the final gorge sprays us all in sap vile, instead we provided pineapple chunks to moisten scabby lips, and prolong the agony for one final heaving lurch, And it is done. In olden days they caved the skull in with stones when the harvests failed. Pity is the most base of all emotions. We wallow in the swamp.
There is a vaccine far away without a city wall, they sing. Round here the white van still is king of the faeries. Up north they are putting up shelves to house commemorative urns. Down here Dido laments white haired waves blown back before the Zoom committee as the Old Greys look in on morphing apps till human voices wake them up to drown in the incredible.
A free land hopeless and divided. Rancorous divisions between bookish Bostonians and Robes-pierrots; pearl barley devos and childish prodigies; blank cartridges and Aaron Burr littering up the federacy of dung beetles—a proud, eventful history of all that’s best in human slaughter in the mechanized age endangered. And then a sullen rentier assumes the right to legislate for honesty! This is a bold country for old men and algorithms.
Sundown, Theodosia, will never be the same without the plankton of your tears. I head for Alabama with my banjo on my knee first light. We may never see my like again
Don’t bank on it Aaron, there’s one born every minute.
November 11, 2020
Jump the Broom
The Phoney War on Slapstick Ends…
Times like this began with General Approval in deep hotchpotch jaw-jaw back of Nico’s bar and grill traducing clam-baked mongrel hoc polloi
‘Better late than never’, sighed swan necked Frieda Sluggish flicking though a growing stack of IOU’s and billet doux. Silhouetted against the bleak midwinter skyline it all appeared quite plausible to steady bogus Chad, whose tab fetish was the talk of the mobsters.
‘Flower sales sank to an all-time low—O’Bannion’s gotta magpie coming his way if things do not pick up by Valentine’s’, said Dom in matching ball gown and crozier.
Hosiery was ever a cut-throat trade; less a game of football and more a matter of life and debt. Smart plague dogs knew that much as they did their rounds of the loose limbed irons that littered the sidewalks of Prague
‘This place reeks of optimism—check out the Assassin’s Diary for…
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Grimbeau 