So, spill coffee over oneself and kitchen.
Result: soft summer incandescent
Rage! Against a covering of lichen
Sludge, puddle,, brute granulated isthmus
And slipper. Tears of hopelessness well up
And the day is defined as sloth and neglect
Dream of cream cakes, water skis and beaches.
Humanism really ought to practise
What it preaches.
Open
Doors and windows
Open
Mind, legs, and heart
Open
Shoulders
Up
Sky eyes
Floodgates
Tins
All hours
My father ,‘Aitch’, as I called him
for nuisance value, came from Ulster.
(Tyrone to be preciser. Dungannon
to be preciser still). Growing up, as you do,
it was clear the Ulster had troubles.
My father, who, as is stated above,
came from Ulster,
Tyrone to be preciser,
Dungannon to be preciser still.
Suffered from an Ulcer.
‘We have all got our crosses to bear.’
He told me on occasion.
Later it was strange to discover that an Ulster Fry
is very similar to a Full English
except with farls and other stuff.
Above them clouds the monk soars:
Theloniously.
dawn breaks on the bough
replacing weary night;
werewolf and dogman
return to their lairs;
and, we ride out
to snatch Tyburn’s necklace,
and plant it deep in
undiscovered clays
Jejune
plastic paddy
once bumptious happy
sat out night’s
confinement considering a
crap consignment.
The can is
a frying pan:
A con sang;
‘Guinevere’
Sad that…
Soft verse for the rolling on day
rich corpulent berries:
shiny cherries make windows for
the platinum moon
and smooth lies curse yesterday’s
setting sun.
Mike Foot died yesterday.
My
mind flew to
the Bevan biography:
when I read it
how I felt.
Then
there was the Scarfe sculpt of him laying crumpled
in a duffel coat with a mop for hair
and spine
This
was soon after
Scarfe had done ‘the wall’
cartoon movie sequences with pink Floyd
who were busy floating inflated pigs.
Huston and the Moby Dick
latex whales,
cast adrift by a seastorrm and floating
about the cork coastline endangering shipping.
Poor Mike,
a bit like
the latex whale himself,
as he got swamped
by the ugly tory juggernaut,
and the middle class parasites of the sdp fiasco.
I heard Owen belching out some shite
about Plymouth after the war, Argyle etc – what a dick!
I have dreamt about being looked upon with
general disapprobrium
for
frequent use of this word,
smacks of a bit of
adolescent muckiness.
there
was this thing on the radio about
Salinger and I was full of shit last night,
so it’s understandable.
Moderngasm organism, wheeze and
puff: chaosmos indeed. Reality
is something to be read out loud at night
to sleeping cuckoos and sparrowhawks.
A zephyr throws the yellow post-it to
the floor…’Sunder; shags; Jacquerie: Blumenfeld.’
Worramess by Wotan.
Afternoon aftermath after
A tumultuous weekend of whisky
and wounds and lesions to self by self,
to self by others, and the rest of it as well.
Heavy warming windless afternoon of droning lawnmowers.
Food ingested, fish & eggs, onward and sideboard.
Sarnies & Pringlees, scabby knees’ ups…then
doppelbangers & yonyons! Feke daze in sum dazzling meddo:
krumpetities in transparent kotton; yum-yum;
mosskeytoes zip sharpish nippingly,
bugginuss as youshoe well: nerewhon gniog.
Strudelweissly hee hawed hiz whey Threwtown.
Grimbeau 