Hand and Gout
Foot in mouth
Advertise for a stand-in
An imposter
Let’s call him Thomas Dolby
Either that or Victor Malby
So I invite him to check
And be checked out down
In Gadd’s Hill
When whoosh! A stroke whooshed
A whoosh like Edwin Drood
I gave then the Trial of Pickwick
A Christmas Carol
Waving farewell
Hand & Gout
Situation abNormal
Each and Everyone fucked-up
—hear no meets Zeno Evil
Palimpsestina
The beginning of beguine
The hospital bed years
Miracles happen
Wonders never cease
Over eight short years
The blink of an I
In the word was the begin
Ning of the beginning
Llamas debasement grotesque apartment
Crime of defacement breaking up discouragement
Wind weathered true blue purchasing new health food
Dead geraniums ooze oilslick crude
Drongo emerges in bits
Feverishly exiting crumpled
recidivist’s drunken carcass
black tank prison stint
Blackness thick as creasote lint
Inky pinky molasses
Sado the Gaoler steals a parting kiss
Through cracked thin pursed lips
Chokes on wreaking Treacle
spattered malodorous pelt
Obstinate bowels make last
Opiated loony stand declare:
Get scrubbling hobo: self, dwelling, pots & pans
Get fed up hobo, get water, learn about money
Sort it out this next week, clear headed, full of hope
Those just past were the
annihilate days of cynical grumbles
Everyone left is old or sick
Learn to play misty again
Sport Roberta Flack jacket
Long hot shower ahead shop
…
So you think you can
get away with writing bling?
Get scrubbling Bobo
If you wannabe a Dylano
Learn how not to sing
Like Perry Como
…
Seeing and being seen, thought Our Johanna, avoiding the mirror the nervy curtain call. October slumped and flu jabbed lies twitching on the sofa, lookin’ for a gofer, time-Honoured joker, flaky, shaky feeble hand…
Mary-Anne—whatever happened to Mary-Anne?
Got carried off in a big white van,
maimed her old man
half a gallon, rustic jam
Bubbling away in a frying pan
Clung to his hair like a Rubberband
…Will Quince fulfilled his fruity pastoral duties
sound bitten realists winced when they misheard…
Put in a shift—3 hours liquid refreshment
Watching telly all morning,
Majolica 197
0, three episodes
Braindead indweller exhales
From your own correspondent
Everything is blog
Post it immediately
Editing is dead
End of time for reflection
Winter Palace mirrors purr
More Myth than Pith
read the plain yellow cover-
no author, no publisher, no nothing to go on
apart from copious words on waxy,
grey municipal toilet paper,
all held together with a giant orange paper clip.
Emma had found it on her doorstep bubble wrapped in a plain brown envelope
after responding to a gentle tap on her bathroom window
A slight smell of lavender and carbolic wafted up as she flicked pages with a numb thumb. The writing was small, sharp dark pencil.
The hand right-slanted, neat, clear, compelling.
It was the story of her life so far
…just keep on going, keep on keeping on, just keep going on, one leg after the other, over and over again, running, walking, trotting, stumbling, hopping, skipping, jumping, leaping…just keep on going on and on…
—Prose-poetry! My very favourite! She trembled
…hurtling it is, hurtling past fast. & I is it. I hurtle. I am hurtling. Hurtling along…Call me Tim E McSquared. Sunflower seed. Primrose evening oil. Pea puree of Nineveh.
a Twinkle-toed sloth. A thermostatic Sea Lion splish-splosh-splashing in semi-skimmed milk, tickling the testy torpid tortoise tenderly with a twig. A purposeful porpoise shadowing passing underwasser boots
Someone’s crocking my dreamcruise, frowned Emma, now stowed away on SS Lusitania—breaking blue cheesy mould, sea change is dash-dashed difficult to do-do
Stick with the corpus temptresses, Beryl & Cheryl Cummerband down the Snake & Tortoise, weaving lotus flowers, milking it for what its worth
& Petit Moi
a Fresh innocent, imagine! Sun shining gold leaf-like, cold blind man wondering Turkey tick-tocking time the only way is up
Writing, writing, writ…no big dealership – Noddycabs, Corgicars, Mini-Coopers…Bubbles, Robin Reliants, all things three-wheeler dealers.
Think tyre savings. Think a lifetimesworth of Rubbertrees.
—Gosh, said Emma. Little Me
Emma stood blank in half-eight demi-light thinking causes for one shit up & two shits below: stale toast, ancient Camembert, fatty olives, decaying salad, egg & chips, late night salmon, oily roast root vegetables, midsummer nectarine, squashy pears, rich cream cheesecake, bottle of white wine, after eight mints, dirty glasses, yes, dirty glasses…
Dirty bedclothes full of stale flu-sweat, skin flakes, dandruff, and smokey house dust
Sink full of dirty dishes, greasy black hob, sticky fingers, slimy forboding corners, swampy miasma, fairy lights hanging from the dogroses.
Handel’s Water music strutted on the wireless. Which came first, thought Emma, the water or the fireworks? Was it linear or circular? Either way it was always the same old Handel. How very reassuring. Not.
The last two weeks had oozed bad news.
9.34
Radio daze…
10.58
No post or calls? Not yet. Have a think. Check your incoming. Read about writing. Perhaps more radio. Tidy the kitchen. Why me? I’m a cripple. A raspberry ripple. Wheelchair Bound. Simon and Garfunkel.
11.04
A sudden burst, a rat-ta-tat, six minutes at least it lasts. Nothing moves but these twisted fingers on the keyboard. A radio monologue describes an airport encounter. John Mortimer.
Namedropper, that’s what I’ll call it. namedropper. James Joyce Carol Oates.
A Friday in October.
Sounds awesome.
afridayinoctober…
nearly gave in there. The urge to blog. SOS to the world #3064…fills the time & I like it. quiet. Just the radio. Me & the Radio. The wireless. The Other Girl by John Mortimer, that’s what it was. Calls? Check for incoming. Clean up. Put the kettle on. Polly.
13.36
Foodless and fancy food means cook sausages—will it be with chips?
Afternoon dawns grey mass dormant air leaves dampen droop slump
Weather report done.
H-bomb calls about F-bomb. Emmer Greensward, Reading. The long haul begins. Chips or the full Monteverdi? Tough call, tough, tough calll…
—Trim your beard, you slob
—In the fullness of thyme, Master. The fullness of thyme.
Get out some haddock to deforest. Is this a hangover or just bog standard gastro-enteritis? No fried eggs, no chips. Green salad, Tabasco, shallots, spinach…
Euphoria
Grimbeau 