manifestival
pen shocking intensity
in the burning hand…
(short pause for cold tap water)
Now then where was i?
Blog said, it’s finished isn’t it?
I looked down trying
To think up a diversion
The carpet spat flames
My toes were afire
I have no carpet
(long pause for suffocation)
Oxygen flees in whimsy
The bees have not knees
manifestly
Refugee bodies
Respectively estimated
Around two hundred
Mass exodus proportions
Rio de Janeiro fishes
Ahead in the polls
Twenty sixteen Olympics
Might be a stinker
Climate change to blame
Too many fish in the sea
Like men
Most worth throwing back
World in terrible chassis
God, I’m older
So are you
Let’s grow younger
See you two
remember some
name
fell off
dark rock dead surface
third stone from a sun
inconspicuous absence
heart grew heavier,
colder somehow violet
gone but just
forgotten
do not kid yourself
we are disposable stardust
Touched
by a film
of frost,
the chill
Cascades
Waspishly
from the fanlight
Squirts
Little nips
of morning,
Bikini weather.
Motorway
neuronal
city women
fret more
about how
they look
than fish do.
Pastel shy-blue,
sky-blue
Sky
evicts
beige clouds
Twenty eight thousand
Miles out there,
just now
A space boulder
passed
over my
Shoulder.
We’ll begin at midnight
When you have time you have liberty
Apollinaire
Noon & Nixpence
Meagre sleep
in tranceful, graceles woe,
pursued by evil minded lambs,
surrounded by the hurt and hapless.
These things I sink below,
subsumed in dread.
This is the blue blue blues:
heavy fug,
turn world upside down,
shake it down.
dandruff and wonga sprinkle
earth skin, cluster and choke.
Bad air day.
Solace: not alone.
United we sit,
divided we lie.
Great Allotments of Albion yield up
sweet pea & radish.
The bearded mates look maddish
and lose well
the first challenge, woody, blemished
offerings get scant consideration from the judge,
old before his time, made over for the telly.
A sex god with a perverse
glint in his eyes
when he says ‘the last thing we want to see
is a drooping sweet pea.’
He knows, you know
Altogether now!
Laws were made
for the obedience of Fools,
and the guidance of Wiseguys.
The
Wrong sorts
Of
Saharan sands
And car smut,
And fumes
Industrial & Domestic,
Combine
Continental
And homemade
Detritus
become
atmosphere:
some air left.
Big, thick mist carouses car hum and buzz.
Warmer globe, scoop the parrot, wetlands lie low,
Exposed, vulnerable, prone.
Low emerald hopes incline,
in the windless mill pond offing gannets
fight for alfalfa seven times diurnally.
The French fleet lurk behind the seaweed bar
Waiting for the cows to come home to roost.
Grimbeau 