Opiate wood earth
brunette even glass,
leaf plumes.
Rain insists easy as
heavy tears of Mayo.
A Cuspid day
Fangs a lot.
Frond reaping:
marking out the autumn field
for fallow deer and rabid ox…
-Windows shut?
-Yea…yes: Clunk.
Smoke and mirrors.
A soft, lilac world
turns turtle purple:
Tempes Fuchsia
Whatday?
Whensday.
Allday?
Okay.
Night gets longer
Dawn is later
Dusk is quicker
And earlier…
The Autumn
Or the Fall
If you will
Used to be
My certain
Favourite
Of the Four
Seasons.
Nowadays,
Not so sure.
Could be Spring:
Curious
Reasons
I watched thin lipped as a wasp
(call it the Duke of Clarence)
fights pluckily to escape
the wing-glue of flat cider.
It takes ages to perish.
When I return it keeps
going for a while, succumbing
at four-twenty-four pm.
Ninety come to the waking,
a good turnout, and chase me
back inside to the plague of
locusts and other various
small and quite big flying things.
New quay
Old quay
Khaki
Shorts:
Turn-ups
Sometimes
Happen.
Upslope from strand
Hotel vanishes
Hotel reappears
Upstairs window sill
Flowerpot drops burst
Lady Look upward
A close scarlet shave
Mystery…Suspense.
The train that never leaves the station runs offrails
Hypodermic nuns in camisoles and stilettos
Peeling potatoes follow the orders rules of
Disengagement. Maris Pipers of the wimple
Cistercian Stylites
Broad brush strokes the flaxen damsons,
It’s green stem phosphorescent.
We stalk the fruit croppers dressed up as deer, with kazoos.
We are all called Sherlock:
Counter intelligent
Counter intuitives.
Too bad heavy day, frown and sigh, we watch
Thick marmaladen flies circle
Pure white perfect dove’s egg nesting in sea
green potted purple heather lavender
surrounded by grubby pink, limp bloomers,
purple legs and arms like Matisse dancers.
A hoverfly, pauses for a butcher’s,
but soon Dakotas off to pastures other –
The wasp on the chocolate brown bacolite
radio had advised so over breakfast.
‘Looky-lookky round, ya’ll!’
another bad utterance,
‘The centre ground…’ the voice said.
‘…but the centre is missing’
said a Talking Head.
Flat or what? What.
Too much Cider
Saturday night
Seemed a good
Idea
At the time.
Yesterday
Slept a lot
Barely ate
No wonder
I feel flat
This morning.
Milk & (so much) More mail me:
‘Grimmy, beat the heat with a summery shake!’
Little do they know; out of the mouths of babes and
Sucklings.
Chucklings all round, paroxysms
Epileptic fits
Now,
That’s a bone-fide
Summary shake.
Moodpaint:
wild night, wet, sheltered behind big bare tree,
sort of dawn through the petrified tree stems.
Tremble to sleep.
Waking warmer.
New place warm grey speckled yellow, yes, puce.
An apology of sunbeams.
Thirsty or what!
…rushing brook squabbling to the left: yes, down there.
Crazy notion of a little, silver trout.
No rod. Fashion one then. Can’t be arsed.
Have a splash and scoop and carry on.
Smoke pause and coffee slug
Curtain sloped out window
Sucked out, outsuck drag.
Shit! Banged red exposed elbow.
Smokestained drapes: salmon peach,
Tucked comfortably in twixt
bizzy-lizzy and big green shiny pot
imagine it plonked on silver beach
the shadows lengthen, sunbathers are vexed
some move, some curl up cold, and some do not.
Little happens slow
Somebody knows.
Grimbeau 