Grimbeau

Scroodles

Category: writing

September 8, 2016

Homo Deus

Homo Deus rises far too early, doing nobody no favours, plugs in the cat and stares mindfully at a cherished hologram

 
Grand auto thieves scamper for cover across the kitchen ceiling, Spider Siddall and the gang know when to err on the side of caution

 
It is now time to retrieve the clavicle from the birdbath, a delicate task demanding scant attention for those bent on self-destruction

 
The Tannoy erupts into life, someone in Patagonia has decapitated a backpacker with a wayward pitch of the bolus

 
Despite nemesis and a string of letters to the local authorities, a group of birds persists in the annoying practice of respirating squawkily

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September 7, 2016

pharmakon

Changes on the way
This takes longer than a day…
Five hogs is far too many

Garden full of junk
Take it as it is
Forget about it

When I cannot write
I write
i ca nn otw rite

There is nothing to
write about
when I cannot
write so I write
ican
no
twr
ite
when I can

garden full of junk
this takes longer than a day
forget about it

change is on the way
take it as it comes
five hogs is enough

when is day afternoons
go on and on
forever

6 Comments
September 7, 2016

Beguinage

Seven Books,
spider words,
snuffed snow
black candle.

A leeward window draft.
Please reprise the reprise.

Axminster Aztec
brick brown rug.

Time to go south,
flight to light.

Nice.
There to remain in sunshine nights.
Mornings open doors to lazuli
lapping the boulevard.

Coy smell of fish, cognac, and coffee.

Dogs yelp gulls off:

Jazzzzzzzzz…..

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September 7, 2016

Political Vegetables

grimbeau's avatarThe Avocado

View original post 73 more words

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September 7, 2016

Greens

maybe tangelo
looking up first thing see i
want to fall in love
eventually one day
just to feel how it felt
looking up first thing i see your
pumpkin orange gloves
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September 6, 2016

Aragon Nite

Tomorrow is not happening yet—adverse climactic features, heavy sweaty day scowls disapprovingly down, sparkless key bashers bang away down tin pan alley,

becket wrote endgame in such conditions staring down at Santé Prison in one second on a grey autumn day in Newcastle, Co. Down in the year of our Ludd 2016.

Mother-of-Pearl skies loom, make for a luminous emptiness, a milk-ivory lamina patina, we inmates parallel such lineage for diversion in my dowdy sweatshop.

The relief of Mafeking Head! The whirligig dances of the Dervish push no rivers, pull no punches at swim in the holy whole of holies

When they ask Jimmy the Greek to ‘resolve a wager before war breaks out, is that the sun or the moon up there?’, he gives his droll stock response:

‘there is no point in asking me as I hail from the Craic of Doom, Doomsville, Doomistan…’, and goes about his mail order business with added gusto.

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September 6, 2016

Lo Energy Sport

no great hopes for this
one—no obligations or
contracts to fulfil
all hours are zero round here
countdown to entropy
always commences with
your starter for ten

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September 5, 2016

ice dust

Above is a good example of rushed verse, some kind of mad blue surge cacophony, direct mappable point-to-point expressionism,

the spot where the technicolour yawn erupts, splutters and congeals into gypsum, or maybe papier machete

Something is in the air. If there wasn’t we would be really stuck. SWOT analysis reveals three dead flies in the blackcurrant preserve, lying low for the duration

Feeling the new is insanity without the confines proscribed by the rag and bone men, take my word for it (you may as well it’s free at the point of need)

Who started the air pump without cleaning the vents? What a terrible mess. The callousness of some people never ceases to outrage

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September 4, 2016

Whoosh

Washed, washed up, washing in the wash – whoosh that’s the sound of corporal punishment and time flying

The parlous Lewis is on the box. This is where I came in three years ago. Whoosh that’s history repeating itself like gherkins and anecdotalists

It’s proper lashing it down out there. Dare I envy the orange lozenge beanflower living in the now. Whoosh whipped the wind with a fulfilled whish

Old music hall jingo-django vaudeville singalongs—bets no-man’s land into a cocked hat
Whoosh there goes a really white whizzbang

The boy I love throws up in the gallery, nacreous alabaster swan’s necks turn when the shot rings out, ‘Gas, gas quick boys’. Whoosh comes the yellow narcoleptic mist

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September 3, 2016

psynapse

the psychology
of redemption goes like this—
put on the kettle

pretty pl e a s e…

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