Stumbled, hugged, slurped,
puffed the grizzly, mizzly
still born grim morn
Away with the furies,
the septic harpies,
the skivvying puggled blurb,
the chivvying, nagging
behemoth of claptrap and piffle
squatting in my gnomic canyon.
The limescale crumbles line the mug
The unicorn dismantles the cradle
The dish does away with the spoon.
Everyone chips in when
Push comes to shove
At the heel of the hunt
The wind
Picks up a pace,
carrier bags, paper cups ,
crisp packets, true rumours,
sweet wrappers, where you left off, very light aircraft…
All manner of stuff really
Mud is the median
Of dearth and flood
In this Garden of
Earthly Detritus.
The Luisenpark Park:
little old boys playing
giant chess under obsolete
scarlet pergola
Right next to the practical
Functional, punctual Imbiss,
Come ride the lurid
primrose chain drawn rowboats
Judder and jerk through the claggy,
pissed off captive flamingos huddled on
a muddy spit
shivering under bleak gaze
submission
Resignation to the cold war grey
telecom tower.
It scares proud erect,
savoy green voluptuaries
flourish about the subterranean root
The rest is waste. A weedy, rotting hinterland
of winter ruin and neglect. As I wince a
black plastic sheet sneers at my disdain.
I lean defiant on the fork,
earth yields to the fronds.
Resistance assumes novel
steadfast lopsided defiance.
Prematurely
summoned
by hounds
alarmed by slams & shouts –
sound carries well under cold white floret clouded skies –
Cauliflower sharp acoustics
Keen the acute
Well-honed
Canine ear
Under the weather’s
Consistent disappointments
Sly Sleet sinuates –
Adversity revels
In Tombstone pistol whippings
Fatuous sunbeams –
indifferent to fluey colds –
wait above the storm
concocting arcane
ruses, kidding us Tom Fools
One o’clock post-kip
Alarm!
Instigates
a comedy of coffee;
a droop-eyed facile post;
a headful of Cape Cod radio snow,
and then the dogs, the raucous curs,
yelping all night long, warning off,
repelling stalking predators, slumber,
stray sleep-walking creditors.
Then some sleep,
but just itchy, tetchy bits and pieces, tosses and turns.
And the waiting. The waiting for the barks to resume.
Now comes the
car doors, the revving of early birds
off to the Smoke to do the night thing.
Obey.
…changed into a pair of deckchairs &
a faded purple clout having toed the line
between night & day, summoned (you guessed)
by dogs.
A stumbling, humbling, grumbling
shower at glumrise,
heavy lead heavens above –
the best place for heavens,
I find.
On the Whole
The year is shaping,
form finds content in
mulch and gunge,
from primal gloop comes novelty
Everything assumes a name:
Rose, Spud, and Daisy to name but three.
And this year’s offspring: Prim, Tatty, and Iris.
Pleasant thoughts to have for sure.
Looking forward to plenty more.
Signs of hope…
Bang!
I kid you not.
The dog just barked.
Here’s the cops.
That sweet Blossom, Tearsday,
loved all things
Petunia,
Luxuriating
there whenever Chance permitted.
Chance was a creature of habit,
smiled on Tearsday three times
on Thursday mornings
between Shipping Forecasts.
Gerald the Burn-Out
dwelt in anti-cyclones,
and traipsed in murk and squall.
A most unlikely couple: Which they weren’t.
Cyril Sloth ate all
through the tempest
spanking the panes,
whipping the shrubs,
wiping the eyes of
Sussex and Cypress
To dotage an
antidote:
threat & hope
weave and knit
a knot
night of dark
sun
measly done
think if you
fit in to fit
pre-shrunk
siege modality,
a beige mentality
the new banality –
Temporality
Grimbeau 