Nap
Event horizon out of sight
In dusk dissembling tobacco ochre
standard light.
I cannot see what is or is not to be.
Only others see hour hands slow down and catch
a halted final glimpse of this afternoon
Grimbeau
Scroodles
Category: writing
November 26, 2013
Splat!
Night collapsed outside my window
to sprawl the garden
legs akimbo
November 26, 2013
No Kidding
Mention of kedgeree, vindaloo, and
rotis spur me from my slumber of libraries,
edits, and re-writes: more painkillers
due soon, and more in process.
Waking dream…
Local pill-makers frantically
mixing and moulding in small manufactures
before the dark.
Soon night will fall and they must be
ready for the collection, or there will be
no money, and they will eat their
potatoes glum in worried,
tired, futile silence.
So, guilty as I naturally feel to be a burden,
it is good to know there is a purpose to my existence.
What would they do without me?
Perish the very thought, accept the claim:
every sod’s part of the main.
November 25, 2013
Remote
Limpid, floating fragments fill mind’s sky,
cotton clouded heavens obscure blue
firmament.
A good boy enjoys a sock on the carpet,
Heavy sighs.
Unmet, unseen life probably goes on outside
(I’ve heard persuasive reports on my radio,
pictures on the shiny electric signs,
indigo screens, and from droppers-in).
How distant is the edge of remote
Anyway?
November 24, 2013
Lift
Above then is it?
In dreams dossing.
After noon front room
back window out: look.
Still
salivating no orchids
heart aches behind me
Head
November 23, 2013
Epic
Otiose prose
Gets up my nose
November 22, 2013
Tarsus
Posing on the pooper scooper
Rowing caressers dip oars in
The music of time:
Flutes…
Lutes…
Pipes…
Silver dipped sails billow. Below
punkahs wallah cupididly the fans.
Ruddered Graces – Nereids,
Drape golden richly perfumed cloth
Of gold
Whose scent
Wafts the dumbstruck multitudes
Asleep
November 22, 2013
Bird of Cowardice
The mob has gone.
Bob is making
rolls with sausages in them.
A thirty four is shut: northward bound.
Wish I was a Phoenix.
Sometimes
November 22, 2013
Jock Frost
Tomorrow is Oxford without parking or me.
Remember the Alibi: amputated neck.
Sick note. Be flat. Play doggo. Stay warm.
Cocoon safe baby bunting.
Snug as a mug in a hug.
All is plight.
Begloved hands ring with pain.
Sing song blue.
Little Green Lies.
November 20, 2013
Ideal
Dark just winter.
Nine o’clock snooze.
Dream? Insomniac dishwasher.
A brief history of crockery.
All enamel is utility.
Hell freezes
under green almonds
and thyme withers
on the vine.
Grimbeau 