So... friendly strangers came to town now guess what you did you made enemies of them go find yourselves smart ass fair weather friends you ain't riders on the storm your just pishogues in the solar wind so that's what pinko lefties bang on about till your sick of hearing it any more ...and the sky is wide just like in the old days when people used to dream on you
On the blue rock
Of a lapus lazuli
Under western skies
We, our feet caked with soot,
Dance like idiots
The Right Horrible Member
for South West Heaven
crawled from the lobby
at nine eleven
Cold turkey chasers Chain smoking peccadilloes Twenty four seven extinguish milk bottles pending replacements A nice drop of air cascades On the woodland hideaway Two crooked ravens hell bent on mere survival strike trade deals over roadkill during mad rush hour
Wichita Lineman pitches up out of the blue Lacuna inquiring: Was you not once a carpfish plagued by crippling doubts about a distant golden age of innocence? Yes,I was once that Carpfish You confirm resonantly with disarming brevity quasi-presidentially semi-residentially taking it all in your jackboot crushing a face stride making cryptic hand signals in clipped bespoken cabalistic tongues Yes. I was that Carpfish: for old halibuts die hard go hang a sharp left at Cape Codology there bipolar dancing bears picnic out on melting strawberry ice floats on mustard wallowing in unabashed self-pity seconds before the bullet hit you in the forehead Trespassers will be Executed read the flashing pulsar over the black horizon
Lawrence Binyon eulogy condemned to years of turgid crass repetition— if he knew then what we know that war is manufactured hell would he have set to writing pretty propaganda in nineteen fourteen one hundred miles away in a picture book rustic Georgian vicarage spewing out doggerel for the yellow papers to assuage the fears and galvanize national pride in imperial sacrifice to be ridiculed and derided by seventies rebels in army surplus great coats sat enjoying themselves in muddy fields listening to Van der Graf generator making a racket shivering and exhausted in stockinged feet cos a playful reveller robbed your trendy espedrilles defiantly pretending you would not rather be toasting fresh muffins with a giant fork on the glowing coals of the lampblack brazier?
Not writing thus read
Goes the old threshing machine
Inside out workings
Belching, churning, lurching with
All the bits showing
Like Norman Foster
Or the Duke of Kent thanking
Ball boys and ball girls
For their servile services
Perhaps if he wore a floral hat
Like his smiley wife
It might brighten things up
Cut the military kit
If it’s nice out wear no clothes
Watch out for that wild fanbelt
And the people in smocks
Sporting giant pitchforks
Tripping on ergot
In the antic hay
And the grumpy teenager
With the machete
christian forbearance
instinctively took up wing
walking fearing to
look back in anguish
-Apart from walk what
would you like to do?
-Dunno, don’t think about that
much these days.
Go out?
Where?
What to do?
I’m skint anyway,
then there’s the weather,
and, to be honest
I’m not much company,
and, repulsive to look at
except in a ghoulish way.
See I’m pretty much
resigned to that these days.
Don’t get me wrong though,
I haven’t given up.
Where there’s life…and all of that.
What about you, what are you up to?
-Cosmic time travel,
the laundry,
a spot of Pilates,
watch some junk on the box,
maybe a spot of bear baiting.
Same old, same old.
Isn’t online shopping a godsend?
The time you save…
-Dunno, don’t do it much these days,
too much damn hassle
and then there’s identity theft,
hacking,
and you don’t know
really see what your getting,
well you can’t can you –
not unless you’re really there,
View original post 41 more words
Grimbeau 