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.
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
The
Wrong sorts
Of
Saharan sands
And car smut,
And fumes
Industrial & Domestic,
Combine
Continental
And homemade
Detritus
become
atmosphere:
some air left.
Adeline
slipped away
alone
with herself
together
she walked
into
the river
Forever
Sunday.
All day.
Lamb chops,
mash or baked.
Oven.
What else?
A Leek.
Fags, need fags.
How?
Conscripts & regulars.
Shit…
Entropy
So, farewell Tony Benn,
wild eyed scion of socialist stuff,
that was not really a pipe,
it was surreal
like lobster telephones,
and soggy clocks.
My mate Terry always
mistook you for Dennis Skinner,
but you were thinner on top.
Anyway, he won’t make the same
Mistake again
I hope.
Winter’s been a long trudge, gummed in mud, bogged down
in deep, awkward ruts, dense and dark forest,
lost and alone, despairing, plenty drunk,
ill with dysentery in sight of home on
a hill fort moat full by water, like Ely without eels,
Hereward the Wake, and Roman quislings.
Bare, blue bummed witches hurl abuse from towers
in the rushed bogland, but no heed is paid.
Their order is clear, give up and get out.
But No! We squit and squat, lugubriate
in stinking mud, rotting leaf and twig, leaf mulch
and loam. My friends are toads in the thicket,
Yellow, shocking pink, emerald, amber
eyes blink calm, slow, gaze fixed on prey prone,
incapable of flight, that they shall despatch
with a quick, languid, silent lashing tongue flick.
Big bugs like us are too much like hard work
we wait on longer days and higher tides
With grace, a measure of luck, we will be
in soft, juicy, new architecture then.
Warm under kind sun through larch leaf, eyebeams
and sunbeams, drogues of sorts, hold this fast
floating canopy secure, and we watch
sycamore helicopters gliding past
Bekka was shocked,
horror stricken
by the gossip
about the tappings.
She was after all
human and while
not a mother
a woman.
So were
Excreta Bourgeois
and Nutella Divan.
Both met a sticky end in cake and catarrh…
black and white bile,
flaccid acid wit,
tweet of brevity,
a probe is announced.
So is all untruth flogged,
like a dead horse.
Sunny spells and gormless showers may pop-up,
Sure,
who knows what to expect?
Scattered,
varied temperatures throughout and persistent.
Staggered,
Meteorolological incertitudinals
Mindboggling,
The algorhythm of the Boolean
Windmaker
Voices hear off. Who’s that?
Sotto voce, surely not…
Laryngitis? Going round.
Dan the Man,
very quiet, very soft.
Hard of hearing what?
Panic: King of Song breaks out!
Windows flung shut,
open air freshener
acrid Lavender.
Look out window, see blind woman,
shout hello, silly me
I can’t hear her, radio off,
mute mate shows up, funny looks.
Is it me or you? Tragic
You me: who we? Comic
Heads start to implode.
All I said: ‘Nice Day!’
watch blind woman talk away.
Grimbeau 