UNO
Ctuous der Dog:
Known, ermined
Happy said:
‘Stick done well.’
Grimbeau
Scroodles
Tag: History
September 22, 2013
Whistles
Glisten
Sheer sparkling wit,
wild infant crazy hopes,
whose voices, too true, call to us all
like spooks
September 17, 2013
Schools Out for Supper
Brenda, Hilda, Daily Dampener, Cleo’s Panda:
All Jolly natter past my open window.
A routine mantra measuring out huge
Dollops of pre-school childcare: tendergarten
Sucklings and seasoned toddlers bloodied, bibbed
and tucked, for the battle, the preparation
for bigger battles with the big bad world
September 3, 2013
Troubadours
On an oil sheet that hummed of bog,
we watch for the tide to be right and
the fires on Spike Island to cease.
In the corner shop we scrounged bread and cheese
and were told the ‘the borstal boys had been busy again’.
So waiting for relief from the relief
of the Southferry road I sat under
the wide sky of Ringaskiddy exposed
to the gaze of passing motorists, uniforms
and other gawkers amusing a bitter scallion
My fellow penniless wanderer joined the free library
and returned with a copy of ‘Death of a Naturalist’,
which we took turns at reading aloud
to fill the time and that of other idlers.
At the same time a bomb stopped
a ticking clock in the North.
August 21, 2013
Biscay
A cooling breeze
up here
on the dark side
of the sun:
bins rumble
sleepily,
need a feed,
or do I?
Dander up,
Dumbo down…
float like a
gutter fly,
sing like a flea.
Get shorter!
Elmore shores
in the mean
streets of heaven,
mixing it
with the Inquisition:
‘Who hid the Remington?’
‘Peter the Punter.’
Eyes dry
savages muzzled
in dense desert
whirlpool,
vortex,
abyss,
bliss.
Terse nerval Ermintruder
Grunts and moves on.
Rambling yak cheviot.
Hear that harp!
Whisking up
A maelstrom
August 20, 2013
Farce of Habit
08:10
First post
(Come to the cook house?)
done,
much improved mood.
Scents of new sweat.
Accomplishment.
Done some thingness.
Stop turning
everything
into a poem.
Done!
August 15, 2013
Rock the Kasbah
World Service Station: 14.30.
Thursday, August 15, 2013
What’s so empty
about human concern
in a well-heeled brogue?
Ummm…thinks!
Ox famine aint it
awfulness oozes
Seeing a Roedean girl
gang-banged by
A Droog Militia who
snigger snidely.
Gymkharma ponies
crash demented
Against freeway barriers.
Pulsars of horse blood
pepper windscreens
Eye blink wipers
flick them away
As quick as a
pest in the Kasbah.
July 31, 2013
Still Life Wall
…that grease-monkey over there,
clad in a voluminous grey migraine of a kaftan,
smells incoming rain, she
watches the rosewood barometer plummet
from minds-eye.
Two cups: dark, bog green and light duck egg blue –
call it grey if you will. Look upon the too pink wall!
A violet pyggy bank, dark pastel blue lagoon.
Dylan: fat sporting unselfconscious Woodbine,
older and hooked now, Larne shed dweller;
‘..in the town of New Haven’… Morrison mugshot postcard;
Milligan Sieg-Heiling traffic Hitler.
Curling at the edges coloured
photocopy of dog-eared Ulysses.
Wailing was the morning
wall of lost projections.
July 27, 2013
Dunkslam
Cruel and vicious age as ever was
longsuffering lifesufferer.
Do not bullshit one about the deprivations of the posh or chide me
I am unspeakable toothless with bite snap vengeful hard work
my reward three times twenty three this year shite up the snout
maculate deceivers line your nests and fill your boobies with
silica and choux pastry resentful me you betcha runs in the
breed like the wooden leg hip hop clip clop Iggy copped it
again last night a long drawn out affair mizzled puzzled dazzled
daddy sulks longest sulk in history of history and night
disturbing bassoon oboe stormtrooping quadruped
foodless as a mulligatawny owl a moustachioed pistachio
beckoned forward by a blindfold bogyman for mud is thicker
than water go the whole hog and take the plunge…
July 24, 2013
Heel
Yesterday plus one
damp smell of seventies
porn mag, black and white,
thick minged,
Titbits or Parade,
lawn and hedge,
put it back where you found it:
a secret.
Stealthy wanks and aloof strops conceal
the pull and then sulky sleep,
complex born.
Delivered by a bald man from Parslow’s
who looked like a parrot,
or that comedian who made a film with a parrot,
lantern jawed, sort of Stanley Holloway,
that time anyway.
We move into different times of Happy Door
writing down the football scores
in a Woolworth red notebook
and very erudite
but for the greasy skin and hair
and the Bri-nylon shirt:
withered upturned orange collar,
second hand jacket that was always too big:
still is.
Pink salmon trousers for smart
made me look and feel like a dork,
perhaps I was!
Do not let on or you’ve had it,
there will be retribution and bullying
far worse than ever known in the history of me.
Join gangs,
walk hard and hide
clever bully,
ideas man,
dirty rec,
silly temptress with Goldie locks,
the smell of sweet wee-wee.
Bowled him!
Over
Grimbeau 