The Tamarind dropped anchor and despatched a
purple emissary
who announced the fate of the sweet, eyed,
lovely Maiden
from the coast of Malibar
to the swelling throng on the quay.
It appeared that, for once, the trades had been kind:
the Pirates of Somali
were vacationing in Bali
greygray windlessness; car doors pound
indonesian summer supper
for the liberal party on the road
to greatwar to end all wars forever
hoseasoning homeward after crickets
over land and treeless villages
redsails on the lampshade sundown
silently through the porchway
eavesdropping evenings gentle snore
HEAD-RIP
He was known to live life dissipated:
Gambolling in crazed buffonery,
Guzzled half a modest brewery.
When his liver, bored, emigrated.
My Uncle Head was steadfast and insistent:
‘Feed me!’ he yelled ‘Til I’m wild euphoric.’
For a pint of gin, no tonic: chronic.
So immaculated homeward: distant.
Ten Afton and a quart of Barleycorn,
stern tea and two, too loud radios
Unwelcomed him the very next morning
as he dimly recalled Jack de Mannio,
gave up on a shower and yawning,
levitated outsidewards to soil the patio.
Back inside he trawled in his shotaway head
and dredged up from its slum, the aviator,
Louis Blerio, who, a century and
one day ago, fetched lobster thermidore
and ate it for breakfast on England.
Head sloooshed a tuft of dog and considered
The perilous return voyage while his liver withered.
Hilda Hogg bit the bullet and set herself to flog her figurine of ole King Zog bequeathed by her fabled auntie Dora who held a candle for the old despot. Times was hard, there was a duck at the door with a hat on, Bailiff Bernard dunning a bill.
‘Adieu, old chum’ she whispered through a final lucky lick on the pate of the china chappie in her trembling hands. If she had really had a candle she would have lit it and muttered a homily to tractor production in Albania.
‘Wassup, Cecille? Have you got a problem with Nigel’
‘He’s such a slimeball, Don.’
‘He’s a natterjack, honey. That’s just the way it is!’
‘ And he’s so toady’
‘That’s because he is a toad.’
‘ You’re kidding. Toads are sexier.’
Exhausted by the dumping I stole away
aboard the Lardy Cake for far distant
shores of Nark, where bumble bees put their feet
up after a hard day’s humming &
talking twaddle is a hanging offence…
Sesame Street
A
Boring blinkered motorist –
Crashing bore!
Drivels on about
Egregious ectoplasmic
Fantasies of forever fading
Ghosts and diseased
Harlots & sirens screaming
Insults at curb crawlers: merely
Jockeying for
Kicks.
Lamentable Sugar Loaf
Mountain climbers pepper the
North face of the Eiger,
Oddly dangling &
Posthumously posturing with
Queerly doomed eyes,
Redolent of summer seaside
Snapshots of Blackpool. Tastefully
Titillating playmates from dank
Ugly cotton mills and the
Vacuous halls of toff’s houses.
Residence was slavishly taken there;
Stolen scraps & slurps for skivvies: wages
Too meager for a human soul to
Undergo without vivacious
Vindictiveness: so, transport drove Lillie and
Wastrel, the footman, to play
Xylophonic heavy petting games at
Yeovil railway station after the ‘Prisoner of
Zenda’ was over.
City versus Stoke in the fourth round of the cup, then Upstairs after the match for a tidy and Risorgimento – should take a couple of months off life. Fingers cold from window draught, sky greying: still winter. Word wordsmiths are unworthy.
Bring the Poe-book for advice and guidance for the bland, then subvert and pass the Tish-ooze. Dead forum, as predicted. Two mush to be bovvered now that sprung is spring. Two robins say it all; muddy dogend of winter lingers. Eddie Butler is a pompous, verbose Welsh git! Ireland versus Whales! Watery Gravy Boat: Crazy vicar eats wild gerbil in ruminative horror! Ask GK for divine divination without deviation or fingering. Crozier those behind yer back! Prestidigitations.
Thigh-deep wading in the river, a band of
Fading lilies in her hair she whistled into
Cool air as the black night rested among
Its retinue in St. Cuthbert’s belfry.
This is not the dawn of last year, nor more
Than it is another night of wonder.
For there, beyond the railway sleeper
Love is rising
Suddenly alone
Uncluttered
By
Long pig slurry
Just me
And
Pink
Bluebirds
Grimbeau 