The sole aren’t biting today,
taking the meagre bait
of rehashed borrowed matter.
Must have better things to do
like sleep or almost
anything else permissible.
The swarming free world
of competing distractions.
Fleets of flights of fancy.
Origami necromancy.
Bat on ball or do fuck all.
Have a weep or have a ball.
All that is within your power.
Within your sphere of influence.
Just go and explore!
Ouch!
Not that one…
Four craven trees,
Black poison trees,
cunning, life
sucking Yews.
Visible
Stark smooth
Rippled water
Calms reflecting
Your face
And the
Silhouette
Against the sky behind you.
You look blank
Sort of lost
In light
Company and drink
enter the room
warm menace, sardonic, knowing, sage
Scarlatti.
When this episode, this little jolly, is over, is it
another Tempest.
An
attractive, familiar, alternative,
sickening, horrific, act of self-harm,
abuse, and neglect?
Why this lack of worth, of purpose, of me?
But,
if this is me how can the alternative
attractive familiar be denied?
Take a good look at the situation.
How does one change it, confront, combat it?
Have a nice day!
Sinball!
Without a hangover as well.
Forget the bottle,
you got the bottle.
Repression.
Gonna play this game of life to win:
shower at eight, sort papers, get creamed up
and dressed
and go,go,go…
Backwater
Turbid water:
frogspawn and dead mite,
leaf and leaf mould,
moulder in water,
and smoulder in fire.
In the watersmoke,
a quick refraction
moonlit silhouette,
stick strike and flick,
a stunned roach lands
soon dead:
Stone dead.
My first and only fish.
March home,
shirt stuffed
with bluff pride,
a natural born
roach killer.
Grimbeau 