The Yellow Fish:
Finally ate,
heavily poached,
taken with fennel,
some soggy spinach
(the dregs of the day before yesterday’s green salad, the flies hate it),
a slice of linseed and creosote loaf,
found timidly lurking in the gripes of the breadbin
(thin slices of linseed).
No nausea is welcome, as always.
Protozoans and zoans; krypton tripped on
A fat, docile cat.
Splat!
A commotion ensued:
fur, screech, ouch, run…
boxed in
in the garden
permanently dormant.
Cist! My arse
Tells a tale
Of
Punishment.
I am arrived at the mausoleum.
Linoleum cool marbled purple floor
Helpfully reflecting afternoon sun.
A resurrected garden through the door
Seems closer as shadow lengthens distance.
No matter; we continue our approach.
Outside is, as always, not what it seemed,
As usual old habits and patterns
Recur: lassitude and wreckfullness soon
Assume the crown: spongeful someday slatterns
Vying for positions of insignificance
Beneath a tree, by the spuds and garden fence.
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.
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.
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…
Wasn’t that sick?
Are you aware?
Me lying dead on the ground,
You in mid-air.
Send in the drones.
Didn’t it miss?
How can they prove?
One who keeps tearing around,
One who can’t move.
Where are the drones?
Send in the drones.
Just when I’d stopped opening wars,
Finally knowing the one that I wanted was yours,
Making my entrance again with my nonchalant air,
Sure of my lines,
No one is there.
Don’t you love force?
My call I fear.
I thought that you’d want what I want.
Sorry, my dear.
But where are the drones?
Quick, send in the drones.
Don’t bother, they’re here
Isn’t it sick?
Isn’t it clear,
Losing my timing this late
In my career?
And where are the drones?
There ought to be drones.
Let’s get out of here.
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.
Nine and a bit of fun boy three and weak sun;
cold fingers tingle
so…
perhaps downunder for a warm and a brew.
Up since five: must stay warm. Limp lions cut no
mustard & cress
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 