Moodpaint:
wild night, wet, sheltered behind big bare tree,
sort of dawn through the petrified tree stems.
Tremble to sleep.
Waking warmer.
New place warm grey speckled yellow, yes, puce.
An apology of sunbeams.
Thirsty or what!
…rushing brook squabbling to the left: yes, down there.
Crazy notion of a little, silver trout.
No rod. Fashion one then. Can’t be arsed.
Have a splash and scoop and carry on.
…that grease-monkey over there,
clad in a voluminous grey migraine of a kaftan,
smells incoming rain, she
watches the rosewood barometer plummet
from minds-eye.
Two cups: dark, bog green and light duck egg blue –
call it grey if you will. Look upon the too pink wall!
A violet pyggy bank, dark pastel blue lagoon.
Dylan: fat sporting unselfconscious Woodbine,
older and hooked now, Larne shed dweller;
‘..in the town of New Haven’… Morrison mugshot postcard;
Milligan Sieg-Heiling traffic Hitler.
Curling at the edges coloured
photocopy of dog-eared Ulysses.
Wailing was the morning
wall of lost projections.
Ton up!
Long room erupts; wild whirligigs;
Zimmer frames defenestrated, joyous
Grimbeau: shy, retiring, dragged to his feet,
Takes bows, shakes hands, dodges back slaps, and utters:
‘Good feeling suffuses each and every
fibre of my being to all of you from the pit
of the bottom of my heart and lungs that follow
these dribblings, scribblings, and other odd things..’
One day pass two hundred posts; shortly later,
today in fact, reach a century of readers.
Chuffed, warmed, valued, charmed,
and happy as a happy chap can be.
Whomsoever you are, or are not, may
the road rise with you along the way.
Never been much good
at saying thanks.
So, thanks.
Idling around upstairs:
the crows nest on a dead
lead soft afternoon.
Was that our gate?
Is the back door locked?
Pscho-burglars,
Killer-flyers,
Mutant neighbours, midweek papers,
possibly a bloody postman!
hello…
hullo…
Helloohh…
stagnant pause (eleven years)…
sighs…(two short, one longer)
footfall on stair…
Shostokovich climaxes…
A throat clears…
Blue flush of toilet…
Phulushhh…
‘What was it?…’
‘When I picked it up it was dead…hisss
I mean dead happened just as I picked it up…
the other one was the paper boy…’
Deeep breathes…
so glad it was just a piddling matter.
Chewy lamb of god & son ltd
First compact runners
Old new potatoes reheated
Fresh mint sauce of summers
Then and now under lilac cloud
Eyeshadow, outlined by cable mascara
And toothpick telegraph poles that scud
Willy-nilly, abandoned to the coal nirvana
Trees call another dusk
Gotterdammerung’s off!
End of the world as they knew it.
All afternoon unquenchable thirst
accompanied by a mind made of puppy fat.
There is energy, it is all over the place;
thin and clumped, dry and soggy, like an ill
-kempt meadow or face.
For, making meadows is
no laughing matter: neither is the end
of the world, no matter when.
I said to Betty:
‘Drop everythingi. Tonight we eat
with Ferlinghetti. I will you uppy-pick
in my Maserati at seven thirty sharpish’.
‘What will we have, Jimi?
Probably spaghetti, or, maybe linguini.’
‘Yummi!’
Bedstretched a while;
thirst like a wadi;
it’s nice here though,
breeze shaded lush
green garden near
overgrown
overgreen
over right
shoulder
colder
clay hill side
There are yellowfish
crying out
for a poach.
We approach seven.
It is evening:
drinks on the patio,
freewheeling banter, laughs , and snacks.
Tapas lovingly prepared.
The lugubrious air
memories of summers past.
Dreamtime in a word.
The smoked haddock will stop yelling soon.
Green or black olives, Daphne?
Are they pitted?
By my fair hand.
You are the one, aren’t you…What’s that sound?
Fish snoring.
Tee-hee-hee…
Yesterday plus one
damp smell of seventies
porn mag, black and white,
thick minged,
Titbits or Parade,
lawn and hedge,
put it back where you found it:
a secret.
Stealthy wanks and aloof strops conceal
the pull and then sulky sleep,
complex born.
Delivered by a bald man from Parslow’s
who looked like a parrot,
or that comedian who made a film with a parrot,
lantern jawed, sort of Stanley Holloway,
that time anyway.
We move into different times of Happy Door
writing down the football scores
in a Woolworth red notebook
and very erudite
but for the greasy skin and hair
and the Bri-nylon shirt:
withered upturned orange collar,
second hand jacket that was always too big:
still is.
Pink salmon trousers for smart
made me look and feel like a dork,
perhaps I was!
Do not let on or you’ve had it,
there will be retribution and bullying
far worse than ever known in the history of me.
Join gangs,
walk hard and hide
clever bully,
ideas man,
dirty rec,
silly temptress with Goldie locks,
the smell of sweet wee-wee.
Bowled him!
Over
Grimbeau 