Sit
in sun
sat in sun
sat set sit stop
cloud two times so far
of late big black slug slow
cloud scuds west left me satin
shade so I wait to sit in sun…
Sun!
Too slow
more cloud chart
black sea blue tear
drop ash in ash tray
wait to sit in some sun
soon see no more blue black sea
now sat I sing of sun sat in
Descended:
queer, sad,
out of sync,
small talk
hard
and
porous:
Tumescent.
Filling time
Filling you.
Oberon
passing out.
Ate soft boiled,
flew a kite,
gargled, spat, and
ascended.
There is pleasure sometimes
when the pain sleeps
rests its harpy’s head
on a nice warm lizard
but, promethean
is not a word
that springs to mind
when you are in flames.
This morning as I flood
Your drapeless windows
A body turns away
to hometown night
Ratfink fabulists!
His pursed crimson
lips made rainbows
kissed by fresh spring
Another new da Vinci exhibition,
The Last Sipper & other lesser Works,
Same faces, same places
But upside down.
‘Time, dark time,
Flowing by like a river.’
He shivered
Looking in the mirror.
‘How did I come
to give up
canonical grandeur to dally
in such quick-buck pranks…
What the hell am I
doing with
these theatre types,
for Chrissakes?’
Finkfab Ratulists!
This is it
Like a prairie
Far as you can see
One big
Bread Basket
Waiting to be cut down
Puzzles me sometimes
How they did it
In the old days
Sunny spells and gormless showers may pop-up,
Sure,
who knows what to expect?
Scattered,
varied temperatures throughout and persistent.
Staggered,
Meteorolological incertitudinals
Mindboggling,
The algorhythm of the Boolean
Windmaker
Nearly an hour later,
job done,
could be better
manicured,
hair free like the lawn.
Still there is no beating
waiting in the utility room
and there never was.
Just happened
to others-
still got scared
at the thought
of it.
We
never had a
utility
room.
Love the smog, says Chuck, give it a $500 bill
Even if it only handles Three-Fifty.
Dedication is not enough:
Starve, go mad, anything
but Christmas and the Queen.
Decent, Open violence:
Heaven.
No guns or knives;
smart weapons, suicide bombers
can have it all too themselves:
Totally Assured Destruction.
Watch them, video game Field Marshals
play it on the beach, with the grandkids, at Christmas,
and watch The Queen inside smart shades.
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.
Voices hear off. Who’s that?
Sotto voce, surely not…
Laryngitis? Going round.
Dan the Man,
very quiet, very soft.
Hard of hearing what?
Panic: King of Song breaks out!
Windows flung shut,
open air freshener
acrid Lavender.
Look out window, see blind woman,
shout hello, silly me
I can’t hear her, radio off,
mute mate shows up, funny looks.
Is it me or you? Tragic
You me: who we? Comic
Heads start to implode.
All I said: ‘Nice Day!’
watch blind woman talk away.
Grimbeau 