A Blute
Tried something ingenious:
no go.
It’s getting colder but still:
no snow.
What’s it to be tomorrow:
dunno.
Not the same as today is:
hope so
Grimbeau
Scroodles
Tag: Arts
November 29, 2013
Nap
Event horizon out of sight
In dusk dissembling tobacco ochre
standard light.
I cannot see what is or is not to be.
Only others see hour hands slow down and catch
a halted final glimpse of this afternoon
November 22, 2013
Tarsus
Posing on the pooper scooper
Rowing caressers dip oars in
The music of time:
Flutes…
Lutes…
Pipes…
Silver dipped sails billow. Below
punkahs wallah cupididly the fans.
Ruddered Graces – Nereids,
Drape golden richly perfumed cloth
Of gold
Whose scent
Wafts the dumbstruck multitudes
Asleep
November 22, 2013
Bird of Cowardice
The mob has gone.
Bob is making
rolls with sausages in them.
A thirty four is shut: northward bound.
Wish I was a Phoenix.
Sometimes
November 22, 2013
Lighthouse Nighthouse
Cricket and pills.
A Huguenot calls.
We talk balls.
Share our ills.
I do not wear lace since chiffon left.
Yet the memory of soap suds abides.
The medication commences just
after lunchtime on the second day.
Two down eight to go. Too high to control:
off the mark. breathe a sigh of brief relief.
Night is right.
Theodolites at dawn portend a repast
of frogs and lizards.
We shall heat them up before we eat them up
watching for triremes from the lighthouse penthouse.
November 20, 2013
Certainly can: Can-can
11:46
Rain.
Poll & Nob been and gone.
Sloth sleeps so no shouts.
Me: wetsuit gloved, coffeed up, watched replays of yesterday and now:
what?
Dog just barked, commode getting wet by coalhole.
-Wannawork?
-Should really. Falling behind. Angsty.
Something about green gauze bugs me.
Cannot spell chrysanthemuns.
Can you? Smart, uh.
Now where was i.
November 19, 2013
Sleepwalker
Miss call: med at four-thirty,
crying along to baby blue,
dead time.
Weeping real tears,
old voices of old friends in the messenger,
dead romans,
Nile vipers, alabaster elephant pups;
dimwit twisted garrets,
dimlit deep sea divers,
cement boots, aquarium skidlids.
Down the lane
at the hanged man’s house
wild beasts drive,
whistle in the woods,
absinthe oglers
naked ladies
paddle in Pull-in’s Pond.
Tears stream down cheeks,
bandanas lattice plaits of stars,
milky ways of cast off
unravelling cloth.
Acknowledge the bible
scribblers on the credits,
disappointed briefs
and wiseacres arrange things
good and proper…warm blooded nappies charm the sinews,
joints glow:
perhaps a cosy nap
before crisp morning
cracks the whip.
November 18, 2013
Still Life
On her veranda
a landowner
Exhales
…a gust of codeine cloud
On Parrot Woods West
where buggy water
sits stale
on crowded crow dead flats
a sun limps homeward
wounded in windless
sheeting mist
October 6, 2013
Food Bank
A tory most crass, loud, and pompous
Created a row and a rumpus
After saying the needy
Were lazy and greedy
They ate him with oodles of humus
October 6, 2013
Snack Attack
There was a bulimic called Shirley,
Who lived in a folly in Purley,
Crept down late one night
Without a hall light
And got mugged by
a large Curly Wurly
Grimbeau 