Sult
Boiled eggs & pills,
the day distils
sun syrup.
muggy bees
drip honey,
legumes swell
and burst,
we eat sweet
orange vine
love apples,
call a giant runner
Bolt,
lazing on a soapy afternoon…
Grimbeau
Scroodles
Category: writing
August 21, 2013
Biscay
A cooling breeze
up here
on the dark side
of the sun:
bins rumble
sleepily,
need a feed,
or do I?
Dander up,
Dumbo down…
float like a
gutter fly,
sing like a flea.
Get shorter!
Elmore shores
in the mean
streets of heaven,
mixing it
with the Inquisition:
‘Who hid the Remington?’
‘Peter the Punter.’
Eyes dry
savages muzzled
in dense desert
whirlpool,
vortex,
abyss,
bliss.
Terse nerval Ermintruder
Grunts and moves on.
Rambling yak cheviot.
Hear that harp!
Whisking up
A maelstrom
August 20, 2013
Farce of Habit
08:10
First post
(Come to the cook house?)
done,
much improved mood.
Scents of new sweat.
Accomplishment.
Done some thingness.
Stop turning
everything
into a poem.
Done!
August 20, 2013
Cat’s Eyes
As I was working on my stare
I saw a man who was not there
He wasn’t there again today
I wish my stare would go away
August 18, 2013
Flotsam
The sole sleep
deep
under high tide
blue sparkly
shingle & spastic deckchairs
nudge and frisk
the green beach.
A sun spurns the night.
Long way off a siren screams:
‘Come in, number 76! Time for winkles.’
August 16, 2013
Pissead
Bees on marjoram (Photo credit: bramblejungle)
Death sucks
Like trams:
Get true real,
Marjoram.
Crazy.
Like splints
Gold is copper
We make love
Sometomes
inbegtween
August 16, 2013
Charles Bukowski is 93 today.
I’m 54 years old now and the critics say
My stuff is getting sicker than ever.
As I often explain to the half-starved wretch
Who does most of my writing
Do not eat the stuff, just chew it over and
And spit it out.
The irregular beatings help sometimes, but the diet of
Wild Turkey and rabid Milfs are gobbling him
Up apace. Like the critics, they swipe the chintz curtains
For their condos.
Still life in the slum is regular now I got the pacemaker
(you can pick one up pretty cheap since the Diamond
League finished).
What is better than a BLT? I hear you ask.
Two.
August 16, 2013
Who are those Guys?
Raindrops keep falling on my shed
and just like the drain that is
too big for its head, epileptic fit,
though I’ll never ever stop my brain by explaining.
So, I’ll go do me some walking with a Nun;
she said that is no way to kingdom come,
acting like a bum,
then off she runs,
with my loaded gun.
There’s one thing I know the shoes
my uncle left me do not fit me.
It won’t be long till the pointy toes
will start to nick me.
And raindrops keep falling on my shed…
August 15, 2013
dead stuff rots
Herring aid skippers quell a smell
A Wounded woodpigeon pukes and revives.
Cream soured Tom Tits choke on the bits
Swifts scoop up gherkin shards and stiff plummet.
Seems about time to sweep up the back yard
Alternatively, build a giant rat trap.
August 15, 2013
Rock the Kasbah
World Service Station: 14.30.
Thursday, August 15, 2013
What’s so empty
about human concern
in a well-heeled brogue?
Ummm…thinks!
Ox famine aint it
awfulness oozes
Seeing a Roedean girl
gang-banged by
A Droog Militia who
snigger snidely.
Gymkharma ponies
crash demented
Against freeway barriers.
Pulsars of horse blood
pepper windscreens
Eye blink wipers
flick them away
As quick as a
pest in the Kasbah.
Grimbeau 