And that, so it was, till now.
The journal arises
on Whitsun Saturday after a prolonged
jojourn in the land of the tetrahedrons,
inspelled by inchohol (how are things in inchaholy?),
in the leantime a beggar become,
so injured the risk of recovery is
now a threat, like church twice on Sundays,
or school
anyday
…here in pen if not in umbra.
Tea and a pea. A pea and a pee.
Tee tea and a Tee-tee.
A tepee. A PT109. Pete Bog.
A pea on a tee. Peaty Bog.
TP McManus. Tipperary
Tim. Peter Purvis…
Easter
2014:
A
Risible
Epic
Is
On.
Smart,
smug Smart Alec sat,
soiled by ibex ordure,
popping vindicates
at established fates.
Marquis de Plonqueur
Mozart Violet echoes
conch in Sea.
All is stop.
No ghosts,
(One did look!)
The door!
Is that a dog?
Would it, could it be?
Back from killing conies,
flushing out fat farm rats,
haring up hills,
racing gannets on the strand.
Yes, don’t be silly,
it was here,
it was her.
Fresh as the icy, blue zephyr,
that bid me: ‘How are Ye?’
Jim brings
legal dose,
two bags full,
the dog bolts
the open gate;
found basking,
break dancing
on the rec,
chewing a rhea;
waiting for
a vacant swing,
some spare rib,
to be fetched back
here.
Go on, then, if you dare,
Rise up, Croppy Boy,
Glean sinister coin from those, Your Master’s Ouns.
Our spies inform us about your bloody business well,
So, we remain sanguine, aloof, sipping on sweet, iced Spritzers,
Before deploying these Howitzers.
Silence breeds lunchtime.
Tell tale signs:
Blue teeth,
Buboes,
Trombones
fetid Mind-Wort
Hyacynthia…
Up in Maine,
we bathe in Clover,
not Butter.
Radio Gone,
auto cut-off.
In the Smoke:
Big Matisse
Jazz Gig.
Scissor Sisters
to preside?
Sounds on the Staircase.
Voices without faces.
Cup in the Galley.
Prospect of Coffee
and Perfidy.
Bake
spuds, move rainbow, smote bowels, cower
shower.
Get out of this space: mace.
Downside up
outside handcuffs.
Get out of this space:
face.
Run and run, hurt and hide, get out of this
space:
race.
Tulane, hold back! Bivouac, lamb Ada.
Get out of this space: chase.
Chantilly, paper, shoe. Confiscate your…
Get out of this space:
Take the air, the quack
said and so we
caught the only sun,
the rest have weekends off,
shining on the righteous
who know who they are,
or have been, or keep trying.
The unlucky ones,
the unrighteous rump,
get no sun,
they know who they are too,
and can’t or don’t want to
do anything about it.
At night they become the majority,
there are just a few
righteous burning most nights,
but they cast no shadow then,
they are the ones
dreaming the same dream
on that special night.
A night that everyone has sometime,
whether they deserve it or not.
A dream like this.
Grimbeau 