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Wonky-wheeled about with caution,
discovered prone Bloom, covered in
lampblack, penitently licking up,
almost lapping up, ancient grease
beneath my fridge. Toilet next,
then repatriation to the Lazar
Zones of Bongo-Bongo Land.
Abjection is the will of kippers…
must try harder next time, if…
What bliss is this?
Sea becomes vapour,
drowns now and then,
bobs up, splays fluke,
blows hole, meals mouth,
dives deep, backs down
Waiter!
Bugsplat the soup it’s toxic and orange.
Deft, nimble, fleet of foot, cunning as Ariel,
Waiter swoops and swats the soup.
Everyone is splattered and grumble.
Did you get it, did you get it?
Yes, they got it. Look at them leg it
For the turnstiles.
Bintruck rumbles,
crunches, and taps,
hoarse growls, and purrs.
All glass slides down,
booms, and echoes in
vast steel cavern.
Clang, clang, thump, clunk
empty boxes
slam dunked, job done,
good work, see you!
So,
we
offer up
these
well-prepped
ants testes
to you
gods
of the
firm
ament
for
the
fecund
ditty
of this our
crop of love
age.
Be nice
for this
once,
we
have grown
tired
of
Near One
Undone
You won
Old Son
Last Night of…
extreme dreams,
stark monochrome fluid,
freeway floral wallpaper,
rotting damasks, shillelagh,
almonds and formaldehyde.
White light, white sheet.
Jammin’ Jerusalem
Jute wailing bunnies.
Then,
exhausted from the lie-in:
cobalt clear still sky
flossed with high flying drifts,
orchestras of demi-gods trail
home spent.
We scavenge the tepee for beans,
celebrate love apples with libations of strong coffee,
and weep and fear for the band snakes,
Asian gators, and tigers on the fridge, hiding behind
the fabric conditioner, still ready to pounce on sleepy
Moorhen’s eggs.
Your runnin’ and
your runnin’ and
your runnin’ away
from yourself.
…the sun also rises
Tennish
Nice day!
Ripper
Sloth sleeps
Pollop sucks
The dead floor.
Meantime,
above,
I lodge a suppository
of all knowledge
in my sphincter.
Go barefoot,
unstockinged or socked,
as often as you can!
Even if
like me
you have
grotesquely twisted gnarled toes,
suppurating scabby nightmares,
wear your feet with pride.
Feet are wonderful,
if you have some
Flaunt them
On an oil sheet that hummed of bog,
we watch for the tide to be right and
the fires on Spike Island to cease.
In the corner shop we scrounged bread and cheese
and were told the ‘the borstal boys had been busy again’.
So waiting for relief from the relief
of the Southferry road I sat under
the wide sky of Ringaskiddy exposed
to the gaze of passing motorists, uniforms
and other gawkers amusing a bitter scallion
My fellow penniless wanderer joined the free library
and returned with a copy of ‘Death of a Naturalist’,
which we took turns at reading aloud
to fill the time and that of other idlers.
At the same time a bomb stopped
a ticking clock in the North.
Grimbeau 