Big black beauty log, kind capsule,
lazy loving lozenge (cut in two),
small brown curly-headed baby,
fallow swallows and amazons.
once I found my love in a field of sunflowers.
Truly.
Silit Bang,
Easy-Off Bam,
Easy-off bang,
More Bing for you Bukkake.
General Flood:
You view sky releases
frog, pike, monkfish.
Recorded for Posterity
Short-term memory
surplus to need
He piped the music slow, careful.
Buzzing,
buzz, buzz, buzz
Not on my nose!
Don’t land…
Too late.
Freeze, Mr. Piper, or the nose gets it.
Sweatbeads: adrenalin: tremble.
Try a blow? Little up draught.
Macroscopia.
Make small big.
Blow responsibly.
Music is oozing from the nozzle,
mauve music magma.
Blow now!
Blew
Sting, recoil,
drop music funnel
notes splatter cake.
Eyes flood
Half blind.
Grab, miss, panic
cake on floor…
…nose throbs, cross eyes
purple lump.
Buzz gone, job done,
fact of life
Clouds bed
down easy
The chooks
make hush,
Throttled,
twoggled:
Nessum
Dorma
Chicken
Korma
We’ll begin at midnight
When you have time you have liberty
Apollinaire
Noon & Nixpence
Meagre sleep
in tranceful, graceles woe,
pursued by evil minded lambs,
surrounded by the hurt and hapless.
These things I sink below,
subsumed in dread.
This is the blue blue blues:
heavy fug,
turn world upside down,
shake it down.
dandruff and wonga sprinkle
earth skin, cluster and choke.
Bad air day.
Solace: not alone.
United we sit,
divided we lie.
Clouds sure foreground
Dark and light:
Everchanging
Outwith night
Enabled, moonless
Mountebanks
Sticklers, wreckers, hoods
Eat bread & drip
Dry
A good evening
all in all.
Neither short
nor tall.
Just right.
Like
Spaniel ears
Or
Tapwater
Just picture
Over there
In that corner
A grand piano
Made of Blood
Fresh Olive
Slaughtered
Beachboys
Surly, vexed, mumbling, bumbling,
swallowing down bile and spleen
a small bird hops past on the sill!
A fair coin tossed.
Whist!
A farced chant, grumbling like an alp.
Shannon mare dream
Shrill oboe scream:
Hector! Hold your horses.
The kettle’s finished boiling.
The past will someday
be the same again.
Let us
Lay.
Is Samarkand
Pink Samarkand
Under those dishes?
There!
I see
golden onion domes,
rippled & various,
Serrate deep blue.
Above
Kites float
perusing plump shrew
on perfect thermals,
circling empty biplanes
She
Yellow
Cowled, pock-marked
Pale chuff faced,
Sidles,
Stumbles
Ghostly
Inside Chapel Cell,
Her Holy hidey-hole,
Up the duff,
recently gin & needled
She
dropped like a sock,
and in that drop got
relegated,
denigrated,
emasculated from Herstory,
babeless scrawl on nameless wall.
No net
you see:
no more net
Nanette.
Grimbeau 