burgh beat (if my memory serves me well)

piles

 
yardbrush swishers beatbrush thwacks yield twiglet slender silver sticks cold outlook strobed tongue groove mouldy bottle green sludge ivy all froe up, garden table soused SLITHERsmooth in ghostSLICK slugslime, SO sad neglected sun logo chair looks unfit for purpose, drizzle SWEEPS over sedge stiff reed , ornamental gusts of whippy arctic sea gales dwindle grizzled peter out, sppn to blow in cheesey goose step masquerade as otiose ducks stand in line on chipped postwar plenty china refurb mantels, hollow winter darkness looms in spring, you always kid yourself round now, but it will soon be passing, yes it will, give has been taken to leave, or merely overlooked by circumspect tree fellers from the weald…

After it was over better—clutching one win under the belt, Miles Davis makes a silent din interspersed with radion soft tocks, geiger counters synchronised clocks and watch keenfor cloudburst—phial of fugues splashes khaki homespun doublet, scutching wheat from plenty chaff— worralorra chaff—pround once a former waf, got a leg up from wan myrtle turtle artichoke to the rank of wag. And never looked back from there it seems from this point of phew…wahplus

Something about this computer—me
Working on some dead sea scrolls: fruitless work for screw loose souls
Gave it up for tobacco road, sacrificed it for a well stocked ashtray and threadbare coptic rug
Was it worth what?
Why how could it not be so-so?