It is Ash Wednesday
It is snowing.
Three-thirty
Snow soon to sleet, to rain
seashells at night…
inert again, atrophy,
a choir noise,
upstair faffing footfall,
drone of bedpump, and
fuzzy tinnitus:
Otherwise silence.
Whoops! A fridge hums
No smell, nascent headcold.
Mars Bar sticky chocky moustache and underlip beard, licky and sticky, a bit icky.
Septik light of failing da
It has just gone ten and the morning splurge is underway so it is upstairs for asylum from the maw, if only a modest respite before the ‘big scribbles’. There are a couple of things put up for comment, unenthalling and over-written first person tedium; they do not provoke the bard’s quim: atrophy Trophy.
Morse can dwell below for now: upstairs poems, downstairs for prose. There needs to be a separation or blurring will occur. Did a bit more of Byrdland while downstairs; the Ginge arrived to say au revoir, I wished him bon voyage and off he went till May First. Listening to Tony Bennett and waiting for Dr. Doss, who is late. Feeling hunted, the prey of a vicious and pernicious pack of hounds, always wary and back-watching: just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they aren’t out to get you!
Noon finds ersine Neil Young harvest mooning after brunching on the rise. Dervla whirls about the garden displaying gusto and little purpose. The writer formerly known as jfg007 thinks hard about the stoning to death of a disabled person of remote acquaint on the stoney beach at Deal, Kent, in 1986.
Mr Brown often ate steak & ale pie with broccoli, carrots and spuds, all of this topped with generous hunks, nay boulders, of Stilton cheese.
Still nowt from mad Granny Mump, he ruminated. Rushed off her feet by an intense session of gross moral turpitude while being held hostage at Winchester goal after a riotous yoga class of legal high-flyers? Time would tell it different
The chances of getting the versification underway are remote as there are matters financial to attend to. With that done in the break of a lamb’s leg, I am propelled by indifference to another afternoon of…
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Woof
Meteors used to be warplanes when I was younger, Comets were for paying passengers, they were the future but they were fatally flawed and crashed to earth. Stealth speaks for itself as does Concorde and although it is a helicopter, Apache or Crow.
As a doodling child I like the Lightning and Vulcan, this changed into the Phantom and the Kite. Now I tend to consider Nimrod and Hercules, but this is just a fancy, meteors are real. So are asteroids.
Plink
Open tuning can be a blessing occasionally, arthritic players swear by it: “Lawdy!” they declare, questioning carpal damage done: hitting the wall repeatedly when in rage and cracking joints to show off were contributory factors, this was obvious.
I have a banjo on my knee even though I do not hail from Alabama. Neither did Stephen Foster; he came from Bridgend and played chess with his eyes shut against a blind man who crushed his knuckles with a rock when he spotted him cheating.
Woof
Meteors used to be warplanes when I was younger, Comets were for paying passengers, they were the future but they were fatally flawed and crashed to earth. Stealth speaks for itself as does Concorde and although it is a helicopter, Apache or Crow.
As a doodling child I like the Lightning and Vulcan, this changed into the Phantom and the Kite. Now I tend to consider Nimrod and Hercules, but this is just a fancy, meteors are real. So are asteroids.
Friday, February 15, 2013
08:19
Touched by a film of frost, the chill cascades
Waspishly from the fanlight that squirts
Little nips of morning, bikini weather.
Motor neuronal city of women
Fret more about how they look than fish do.
Pastel shy-blue, sky-blue exacts beige cloud
Twenty eight thousand miles out there, just now
A space boulder passed over my shoulder
Like one care.
Grimbeau 