Schnitzel! Bang, bang, thump, bang thump:
It resumes, slower, tireder, more circumspect
This time, sculpting, levelling, shaping.
Egg and breadcrumb, and season.
Then phlasshhh in the pan, some fries,
Wedge of lemon,
And flies, french.
Short-pitched attack succeeds
Clarke plays on from Broad’s
Bumper.
Bye-bye till next innings
Tatafornow
TTFN
187
Australians
Possibly collapsing
Flight of fancy!
Sid and Nancy
Necromancy
Crave still and clear vision,
you never know it could, you know.
Bad lad down,
clear out of town.
Do not darken our door
bad news boy.
Come back when we’re gone out.
Sit down hard and think about it,
what you did,
You. Serves you right, eh?
Got your just deserts.
Look at you standing
lost in long grass
with toffee in your hair,
bramble scrammed calves
and shins.
Hide from the passing voices.
You’re on the run on your own.
Outsider till the smell of onions
frying, then, caught on the horns of…
Conflicted. In two minds caught on
Hungry man: angry man.
Be nice, take your medicine, be brave,
get fed, then go back to the Land of Nod you little sod.
![[Kidwelly Castle, Carmarthen, Wales] (LOC)](https://i0.wp.com/farm3.static.flickr.com/2584/3751646063_55b3de42a2.jpg "[Kidwelly Castle, Carmarthen, Wales] (LOC)")
Seven-thirty, my life:
cider and ashtray gob, pee (an ocean).
Put the kettle on; spill, make and drink a
glass of mud. Bowel creaks and groans,
there is a hog on the roof…
now above and emptied, dig out the day
to come from the old bog road.
Could have been a toad in another life.
Maybe a camel.
Bactrian of course. Yes, that’s it!
Plonked beside the sphinx waiting for a ride.
Better than Buddy on old Barry beach,
freezing in his duffel coat.
Fires behind windcheaters,
they eat ready-made drumsticks;
glower and growl when approached with a view to a sell.
Neddy gets a toffee apple and pukes on a sandcastle ruin.
Conway not, Kidwelly more likely.
Outside toilets on the fourth floor
always a hazard to the uninitiated
The galley is a mess: the Cook’s portholes,
open, abandoned, admit the squalid
Seaspray.
‘Keel haul that Boson, Master Bates, cocking a snook again!’
Karmic three times before the gloaming
Sixbell.
Cross word addiction seeks crucifiction.
Cryptic agnostic pursues persecution.
Here comes the window cleaner in a towel.
So, splice the main brace, Mr Hands, the wind howls
the sea is incandescent maroon green,
a kraken’s wake can be seen astern.
Just there beside the gherkins.
Looks like a job for the Kropotkins.
Well, that told it how it was, put plainly.
Food and codeine taken; heavy, post-op
medicated eyes loll there in your head.
Soon the sun and you break through and shine,
Or so the forecast has it. Never give up
on a good forecast, as, one day, it might
give up on you. None of us want that, do us?,
…that grease-monkey over there,
clad in a voluminous grey migraine of a kaftan,
smells incoming rain, she
watches the rosewood barometer plummet
from minds-eye.
Two cups: dark, bog green and light duck egg blue –
call it grey if you will. Look upon the too pink wall!
A violet pyggy bank, dark pastel blue lagoon.
Dylan: fat sporting unselfconscious Woodbine,
older and hooked now, Larne shed dweller;
‘..in the town of New Haven’… Morrison mugshot postcard;
Milligan Sieg-Heiling traffic Hitler.
Curling at the edges coloured
photocopy of dog-eared Ulysses.
Wailing was the morning
wall of lost projections.
Ton up!
Long room erupts; wild whirligigs;
Zimmer frames defenestrated, joyous
Grimbeau: shy, retiring, dragged to his feet,
Takes bows, shakes hands, dodges back slaps, and utters:
‘Good feeling suffuses each and every
fibre of my being to all of you from the pit
of the bottom of my heart and lungs that follow
these dribblings, scribblings, and other odd things..’
One day pass two hundred posts; shortly later,
today in fact, reach a century of readers.
Chuffed, warmed, valued, charmed,
and happy as a happy chap can be.
Whomsoever you are, or are not, may
the road rise with you along the way.
Never been much good
at saying thanks.
So, thanks.
Idling around upstairs:
the crows nest on a dead
lead soft afternoon.
Was that our gate?
Is the back door locked?
Pscho-burglars,
Killer-flyers,
Mutant neighbours, midweek papers,
possibly a bloody postman!
hello…
hullo…
Helloohh…
stagnant pause (eleven years)…
sighs…(two short, one longer)
footfall on stair…
Shostokovich climaxes…
A throat clears…
Blue flush of toilet…
Phulushhh…
‘What was it?…’
‘When I picked it up it was dead…hisss
I mean dead happened just as I picked it up…
the other one was the paper boy…’
Deeep breathes…
so glad it was just a piddling matter.
Dawdling in the dark, bed on fire, live wireless;
bailiffs at dawn, rogue elements everywhere you go;
Poet sent to prison for life in Qatar,
Emir takes big umbrage; World Cup queries.
Peon of praise for the Tunisian revolution did it,
posted on YouTube – whoops-a-daisy!
Emir’s wife sealed the deal on an
‘ephemeral, vanity project’
(BBC Today, Tim Franks 7.40 am)
insouciance advised for Davy Gravey –
zoot alors! Zoot suit!
Zoot Sims and crystal tips;
cellulitis suspected;
floccinoccinihipillification.
Wilko’s got the big C, no chemo on Canvey;
pancreatic cancer, ‘ten months, every little breeze
and brick in the street – I’m alive!’ Roxette! I cry! Dr.Feelgood…was that the news that day?
Grimbeau 