The Plough &
The Stars in black &
white relief
triumph emphatically
allover my will
sporting slate black uniforms
parading John Ford
paddywhackery.
Some toothless Barry
Fitzgerald
lopsidedlymoustachioed
does unbalanced
convincingly
in tatty old hats
& assists a terrible beauty
down paradise road.
Tim Peake Gagarin
becomes more human traffic.
Good riddance to guinea pigs.
Smiley’s pupils shrank
on witnessing Stanley
Holloway in drag
(Some re-entry queries remain)
A three red night sucks
its denouement this morning.
All lights on and doors left causal open.
Perfect funeral weather.
Took the cure but it ain’t got through.
Think I’ll pester F-Bomb in a mo.
Naught doing on
the scribble western front.
Guts gargle in red
wine and ready salted crisps.
Permanent wet dusk.
As constellated
Jason and the Argonauts
pay their usual
Ritual
Xmas visit.
The dog will not drop the stick.
Perhaps upstairs
is the best
Place for me just now.
Either that or a
cross country run in slippers
Quicksand fast forgets
Little horses riding crops
Phosphorescent hounds
Crystal palaces
skeletal farthingales
cross country runners gum boots
all manner of stuff
Glimpse sobriety
Contemplating lunch for brunch.
Boiled beef and parrots.
Overly ambitious
infatuation junkie
craving approval
~
Water drops on thin bare twigs,
silver globules adorn taupe.
Keep on until the
urge to coalesce passes
lazy morning lines
spaghetti conjuntions
When six comes
round I will shower,
avoiding Pointless Celebrities,
Strictly Come Prancing,
disport my pinball skills,
pray for deliverance,
and listen hard to
Words & Music if
they have not been downsized by
bloody austerity
Five
Dark
Winks…
Chronic dependence
Ipso Dipsomania
Ugly lovely noun
Wouldn’t send a dog
out in this weather, would you?
Now that’s a tough one…
Yes, I reckon that you would
Only if you must
You are incorrigible!
Irredeemable
Inveterately
Tractably
Thirsty
Fifteen minutes thrum
sat broody top blue duvet,
hatching awesome eggs…
inscrutable hors d’oeuvre.
Get the lift down primed to go.
Wash away the evidence.
A gulf of crusted vanished years
Whether Hitchcock should
have directed Scrooge before
he left Eggland for
Hollyweird to make
Rubicon and cop
an international
trepidation bugs
me fleetingly as
I avoid the shower and
its brutal red sequences.
Yet at some point I must be done,
just not this rosicrucial one
‘Just walks around sweating, does nothing but sweat…and fart. Yeah, sweating and farting, and grunting too. Sweats, farts, and grunts. The man is a disgrace!’ raged Nobby, hopping shrewdly on his good foot.
‘What did he ban you for then?’
‘I called him a fat, lazy, turd.’
‘I see.’
And Henry did see. He had discerned a pattern emerging since Nobby offered to stick a hot poker up his arse in July after a lurgy. Quarterly cycles, circadian rhythms, in-growing toenails, attention seeking behaviour, and six pints of Old Tharg each lunchtime had taken their grotesque toll.
‘ I’m going down the Zephyr from here on in.
Henry was confused.
‘You mean the Zodiac?’
‘Yeah. See you Sunday.’
‘Okay, Boss.’
–
With Flo away and Headcase post-traumatically shocked from a wolfhound goring Henry was all for the quiet life. Summer had been pointless, autumn dormant, and now with winter’s onset Henry was concentrating on his baldness with all his might. If he fretted on it very hard, a hairless Xmas was within his grasp. A once in a lifetime opportunity. The experiments with the uranium earmuffs would have paid off. In the new year he would get a patent via the Godalming Honkers Cult and new vistas would duly open up.
Grimbeau 