Wind whips rain into a lather, suds flop
coating the gunny sacks of chrysalides.
In lamb we trust, mint sauce spooned, vinaigrette,
in dollop, drizzle, cavalier splashes,
and in gravy swilled figure of eights.
Suds slip down in dirt, super, saturated
soil where rose and weed fear to bed in wont
of oblivion, just when you least expect
a dandy bramble jallops the windowpanes.
No rest for the wicked, it tattoos.
Bleak expectations!
Ready yourself for the big surprise:
There is no spinach.
Liverpudlians go shopping on the wireless.
The light dims.
Cheer up!
It’s not the end of the world.
Says who?
Am I talking to me?
No, thank Gawd…
just the voices in my head.
We sit and wait and write.
What is there to do?
Exercise, sleep, leisure:
the high life, or what?
What is to do today, to what end?
Option plop is number one.
Option fresh coffee is an ambition.
Option edit does me credit.
Other options are optional.
Rabbits and Guinea fowl
Smiley too will play a part.
Frost becomes Frimaire
Sat, consternate, on the rotting silver birch
stump bemoaning the lack of an exotic
mushroom yield
(it being over three years since it was inspored)
a rolling stramache, a riotous flurry
of poppies blew wanton from the coppice.
Red ones, white ones, black ones – this cloud consumed
my solemn rage. Then they came, arguing
in tongues. Poppy makers from far and wide.
The marketeers are always exercised
thus early November. Not these poxy mushrooms though:
bloody rip off if you ask me reader
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.
When tempted to run for pinball
do yoga breathing, stand on your head,
and whistle down the wind,
play games
with lazyitis, and why not!
The grizzly nonsense of dossy
dissipation, the thin dry horse
tethered to the crossbar outside
The Molten Slipper Saloon
disaster’s old recipe
Table on the meal when you get
Back home if you have
got a home at all.
In the names of gods and sods,
we all perish.
Unlike the giant sink spiders, who,
like Andy duFrais,
made it via drain,
to bask in cool,
silver basins,
asylums,
and bathe in the tumult
of the morning tap tsunami.
Kettle on,
wipe and flush
the mushrooms.
Trousers round
lifeless ankles.
The shame of it!
The shame.
Baby safe in the microwave:
Suffocated. Cars meander still
slate dead drivers slowmo halt
in open sewer.
Ringa ringa roses…
Today,
some place in Shetland,
an upside-down helicopter on sand.
A phone rings, it is my doctor.
He say: ‘I will be late.’
‘Okay’, I say, ‘so will I’.
Smoke pause and coffee slug
Curtain sloped out window
Sucked out, outsuck drag.
Shit! Banged red exposed elbow.
Smokestained drapes: salmon peach,
Tucked comfortably in twixt
bizzy-lizzy and big green shiny pot
imagine it plonked on silver beach
the shadows lengthen, sunbathers are vexed
some move, some curl up cold, and some do not.
Little happens slow
Somebody knows.
Showered thoroughly, racket of motors and gardeners ergo
no P&Q – which should be minded at all times. Pills taken
after scotch egg and salad. Sit outside in the din? Coffee & Fag first,
Friday afternoon slope off early. Bone piece on Hacek okay,
Strike Magazine – check it out, maybe subscribe. Need something
softer under my bare arse. Where was I? Coffee and fag.
Late sultry night and nearly sultry morning.
DODI? More royal dross, oozy does it,
nice & oozy.
Hot & Cold liquid. Door?
Scratch? Make enquiries without.
PC Pigeon, Flying Squad, scratching around
like Inspector Hound – more of a sniffer who likes a snorter.
Barmy cops the blame for littering path.
Does his bit, Hound.
Slowly make drinks of coffee and codeine,
think food: rashers possible. Go get it together:
fill kettle, don kaftan, open door
(already did that above).
Verses! Form and content.
Wrestling with Flowers:
let it flow out, only drips from an empty tap.
Sticky so shower laters.
Gutpowder arrives; cause celebre to
noisy gobsloth to be centre of attention:
failed and fucked off!
Trappism recommenced at 10:45.
Start to detox tomorrow; fancy a sausage!
Quite peckish, yesterday’s heat mostlike;
thunder earlier; food is good. Sausages on: pollop shopping;
feeling flat, food and incantation desired;
crock steady, one day at a time sweet nexus.
Sharpen up with a shower, kick out the jams…
Note a relapse to ultra-brevity,
so often happens when fractious, hereshow:
skirting the zone, hit and run prowler.
Regard the Fearstalker
See the pushy, nagging whippet.
Grimbeau 