Change is Dangerous
Pleased to inform you
that the operation was a
total success and
I am now a proper woman
All thanks to homemade napalm
Grimbeau
Scroodles
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Kris
Dewar saw the fear, read the cower, laughed.
His capricious myrmidons looked the other way.
The bush was sharp, dew damp and dirt dusty.
He jumped before he was felled.
The wounds were evidently self-inflicted.
He makes a habit of this.
Control was all.
‘He’s mad alright’ said Dewar
‘Told you‘ said Trimble.
They melt back in the playtime throng.
Parr helped him out of the bush.
The legs are scratched deep and bleeding.
Why? Contrition is the wetter part of valour.
The big yellow streak dilates.
Might is always right in the name of Peace.
Spring comes slowly up
pissing about to the echo of a toothless mastiff chewing
onea rock with a fiddle, singing of the abducted.
plonked awkward on a mute piebald palfrey
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little ditties…(i am a walnut)
micropoems crowd
scarred free blogs save our doleful
planet from gutter
unnecessary clutter
peagreen penknife trysts
slashed on old tree blogs
Eternally yours forelorn
Tina’s coming very soon
…so just dig it dorothy
swallow the yellow brick road
& forever remember
neutron stars sleep all day
recharging batteries then
scintillate all night
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Darning Socks for Sontag
Endured cross stitch ups and venal stings,
incursive pine needles and lupins,
divisive thimbles and tumbrils,
concluded justice must be obscene to be undone
that finger food sucks at Funky Fiona’s,
regretted the futile fracas in Franco’s Head Shop,
and, at the heel of the hunt,
feeling flabberghastly
repeeled a grape for Delilah–
Yes the bummer’s done.
Now sat here the huge jukebox
affecting a timid demeanour
behind purple drapes
we, with blunted needles and bent pins,
darn socks for Sontag.
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Tristezza
meek winds sing small ills: niffles snuffles niggles gripes Gene Wilder’s gone stone deaf dazzling daisies pomp no more turning leaves bonfire bright -must we go to grown up school this time every year?
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The Bragging Hall
Shut the craven door, put on the long sleeves…here it comes
Rouged erotic fall apples hang heavy in the sweaty orchard
Too often and falsely I have been told I am loyal, true and faithful,
Honest to a fault, capacious in my tolerance
Why let waste-wolves take their pick, leaving us wild boar
Cherish stray abandoned cryptic sirens
While rapine tyrants mocking strut their bawdy stuff, and raze ivory bone chapels
to cinders as innocence stands by looking on?
Untongue this serpentine insatiable ambition, stuff red hot pokers in it till it puffs
up like a hamster at the cud
Let that be an end to it for good, then retire us we shall to the bragging hall to winter in stories tall as giant pines and spruces
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A Dude Awakening
...you are not writing thus you are not a writer i am not writing thus i am not a writer -better quickly jot that down quick over there that paper scrap with spuds eggs, toilet rolls, dog food,crisps some forgotten shopping list or postmodern masterpiece what a bloody mess better get out the Hoover later there's nothing on the other side where's the pen? there, a pen, blue dried up biro, it might just work today. Increasingly violent circles- watch it, you'll rip it: A pencil! there behind the box of menthol vapes behind the burning candle careful, slowly does it that's how accidents occur i really must go to the loo. the dog wants to go out i can let him out and go downstairs, listen to the early morning news Shit! the clocks went back it's bloody Alan Bennett fetching in the milk i am not a writer…
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Mr Potato Head — The Avocado
So, that was Black Friday: the first day of winter intimations, cool rain and mud. For the first time in months he breathed from his pelvis, his kidneys were in good cheer, and his bowels mirthful with the prospect of heavy stews and baked potatoes. ‘Spudfinger…ba-baa-ba; he’s the man, the man with the tuba touch’ […]
Mr Potato Head — The Avocado
Grimbeau 