Toad Moon
palpable sea change
calypso ipso facto
red rum chronicles
Grimbeau
Scroodles
Tag: Home and Garden
March 22, 2015
The Die is Cast Off
…aside from scrub
scatted Street Legal,
flew solo around
the warm grey upstairs
spreading love
and affection with
my every breath.
I had a pony:
its name was Lucifer…
March 22, 2015
Cuddly Vicars #8
Feeling lucky, mucky, clucky?
Spike the Curate’s eggs.
Wind’s dropped, termite respite;
north-westerly’s will freeze
your bollox off.
No vest for the whack-ed.
Fools down tools
play pooh-sticks in the urinal,
paper boats float upstream
(a blocked drain in Sao Paulo).
March 22, 2015
The Surgical Spirit of Joy
More murky murk
Mufti wades through grey
Morning Match of Day
No blocked beds
Must scrub up
Ready for Theatre
March 21, 2015
Gunge
Jerks temporal physical
ecclesiastical spits
& spats dribs and drabs
scamper like sideways crabs,
those little sand ones,
super-sensitive little critters,
don’t want them in your vestments.
Just thought makes skin creep.
Icky rinse and unction,
gentian blue, geisha socks,
hollyhocks in aspic,
that’s fixed it. spit it out,
like venom or tripe
gloopy pukey cheesy goo:
Yuksville, Ariz.
March 21, 2015
beedling
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
March 19, 2015
Number Crunch
point six recurring
terminal velocity did
what it said on tin
March 17, 2015
Uglies
Look! gurgling gargoyles
grotesquely gurning gargling
blistering mouthwash
March 17, 2015
Grumbleswamp
Cleaned up as
best I wanted,
feeling slumpish,
taddish offish.
Make a wishlist!
Worst it can do
is not come true
if you’re careful.
The glums are dripping,
grumbling swamp gobs.
I have just done
more this morning
than all weekend.
Ghost revealed his hairy hand,
trimmed his balded pate,
gave himself the willies,
curled up before liars on telly,
waiting on next second wind
to fumigate the fuggers.
March 10, 2015
Major to minor…
A jingle in the dingle,
a dongle in the shrub,
a riddle on a fiddle,
the median of middle.
Stepping out in running blues,
shouting ‘Still here, your twerps and twonks!’
who wished me gone for yonks.
Net curtain snideys,
hanging out dry washing
on crooked lines
just to block out the sun.
Grimbeau 