Save that, Patroclus!
It’s
Midday plus
five.
Hazy Sunday afternoon.
Luncheon?
Fishcakes & ptarmigan droppings.
Not again,
Pen
What happened to the marmoset wellington?
The Ogres, I suppose.
Eyes bigger than their stomachs, those lads.
Gluttons with mutton.
Ask Old Shep.
Boiled eggs,
two soft boiled eggs,
four minutes sortie,
give or take a few spoonrides
for immersion and rescue –
tense moments, critical mass.
Two slices of toasted oatmeal brown:
four buttered diagonals, obtuse triangles,
bread hats for bald coolies in monsoon, torn
to shreds by bare hands for dipping soldiers
and to perform mopping up ops in egg, salt and pepper theatre.
The year is shaping,
form finds content in
mulch and gunge,
from primal gloop comes novelty
Everything assumes a name:
Rose, Spud, and Daisy to name but three.
And this year’s offspring: Prim, Tatty, and Iris.
Pleasant thoughts to have for sure.
Looking forward to plenty more.
Signs of hope…
Bang!
I kid you not.
The dog just barked.
Here’s the cops.
Apollinaire wore underwear
de la Mare wore trunks
Ogden Nash liked ganache
Ezra Pound fed Monks
If you go down
to the woods today
you’re bound to
bump into
some trees
Gremlins can piss
on the Pope
best not do
it on his
Mother
Wild notes:
A bit of a whopper!
Had to get these down before I got stuck
cheroooted to the table.
Thanks to Danny Baker.
Warmed my butt and sacrum
with the oat and lavender bags
flicked through the morning stations for
distraction,
inspiration,
information –
in short, company.
Other voices.
Came across the Danny Baker Show,
a show I like and always forget to listen to
I am so bogged down in my listening ways.
The item was about Greenland’s timezone-less centre;
how they called it Greenland because Vikings
wanted to deter invaders from their cherished Iceland;
another item mentioned ‘thundersnow’
and I was away. Up for it, writing came first
and I made some jots:
These are they.
Saturday mornings Punk Odyssey
Drongo pomes dialogue.
The Vanmitzvah;
little feral red van
becomes
big red van/bus does
not stop at my gate.
Passed by a boy: came back a man.
Returned, emerged.
Apple in a football ground.
Thundersnow on a lowlight
There we are.
Banged one out, as they say;
never mind who. They do.
Whomsoever this they is.
I do not know…
She fibbed.
And she knew that I knew too.
If you want to find out, like I do, call her at:
Pennsylvania 65000.
I can’t get through.
The reception is dreadful
in this carriage.
Perhaps I’ll try the caboose
after luncheon.
Growing colder fast,
sat wrapped up under
duvet,
sporting historic giant purple Woolly.
‘Long Arm’s, hasn’t he?’ said the mother knowingly.
‘Yes, very’ replied the daughter: curtly.
Cutely.
The arms on the blue one are very odd
The measurements were given over the
Telephone:
In real time.
I shot an arrow in the air
it quelled a Shriek
On
Finistere
Grimbeau 