Grimbeau
Scroodles
March 31, 2013
Miaouw
Easter Sunday:
bright blue,
Lapislazulish,
cold.
Crusty as a dead cat
I crawl and prowl
the Vatican
awaiting a peep at
The Frank One.
Lovely weather for it too:
Rising from the dead
after a day off.
Scoff all eggs
March 30, 2013
Sepulcral Saturday Afternoon
Hitting four afternoon
Pretty busy buzz-buzz today:
lie-in (phew!);
hunting fivers out in Windia;
big scribbles with pretty coloured pencils;
youza-youza denklings;
a spree of Django strums and flutterings.
Life imitates art imitates
art imitates life imitates
life imitates art
imitates
life
imitates
March 19, 2013
pramchair child
Only the Pramchair child remembered
Lord Darren and Grunge ended their hundred year snooze
While the gobsmacked onlookers were mute
The duo dynamic swept through the queues
Wildly pillaging designer training shoes
Only the Pramchair child remembered the truth
The looting and the burning and raze the roof
Spreading to the estates and rich avenues
While the gobsmacked onlookers were vacant
The upside world turned away from lying parvenus
The bounty of a lost and cynical ruse
Only the Pramchair child remembered the truth
The mob ran off home and hid all the goodies
Ate supper quick and caught the evening news
While the gobsmacked onlookers were vacant
Only the Pramchair child remembered the truth
March 19, 2013
chocolate dough nut
See, I forget my drift!
I have lost me moorhens.
Scattered mummeries
of the dreams we left behind
in the service station
on a beige plastic table
stuck on a wet floor
A low and rhythmic
mopper
mops
somnambulances.
I see myself in a documentary,
a lone rider resting before the next crusade.
Infidel Castro,
beard and cigar,
flying down to Rio for the show:
No chance of light,
tonight
Knight.
March 19, 2013
Tempes Fugit
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.
Grimbeau 