Whither the day, whither the morrow
Head full of pain, heart full of hollow
History stopped this morning at Ten
The Pinkos have got me corralled in the Pen
Biding my time, postponing the Craic
Till hell freezes over and heaven smells black
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.
At Ate Ten time for
Clogs and warm oats;
Thoughts of
wizened scrotes:
antidotes.
Duds Army withdraws
Rubbery from the Shrubbery:
Go prune a tune at twilight.
Spoon to Dessert Island dusks.
Contemplate Three banished tusks.
At ate fifty time for
Dogs and warm coats
Dreams of
Prison notes:
Ice cream floats
Windblown half-moon running
chickens chased by scattered twigs,
flyblown choc bar wrappers dervish,
two taciturn Masai, a large yellow balloon,
Bladerunner and a pride of moles: rural quiet is resumed.
Quite a Wok.
Urizen-frozen Fell
the frozen, lurid
mud Grey mod.
What Budgerigar?
Or plumed fallow
grazing dark dimensions
such as these:
saying thussly.
`your dreams shine without you or me
capably…’
taking of notice. I wrote these words when
I realised that, given scant regard,
we are
Diahann:
the weakened
flutterby.
chill,
wet first frost
rest thin little
finger on a pin,
four wet angels
shimmer
in
salt
spill
kept from the saddle by sleep and cider,
nestled in this cluttered room, this dimlit
hibernation station, wallow fallow in
the gathered gloom, the afternoon moon
this is the time for those who dream in daytime,
those who gather and hunt, those who like me
watch from windows, making shade from shadow,
form from substance, the things that dreams are made on.
Elfden
Chumpden
Chookslayer
writhes about
In fresh turdies,
guffawing tiglets,
splurging glurb,
drooging knucklers,
whenxe
a seizure to indulgest
a zit of DIY Greco-Roman
unter den perchway
to sepulchritude.
‘Is this the way
to get a mush kiss,
standing here still
pulling my penis?’ He snoods
toothe fladgey gorlslush
whooob gawbs a goober, hollowring:
‘Ingorge anti-intoxicants for it
forthwith & pulverise the amoeba-3
out of the armadillo, Pillow!’
…time moves in an oboe polka from slug
slow to impish sprite, flits in heavy privet,
snakes under town tractors, hides behind
wheelie bins, always a nick ahead of
the quick, automatic click, the belated
enough glance, the I’m looking for you look,
off it skedaddles, darting, flitting, slick
freezing stone still, mischievous, keen alert,
a baby Pan messing in misty morning moonlight.
I am busy elsewhere, cursing these bogus charts
messing with focal planes, vanishing points,
hocus-pocus concepts of moon, window-
frame, yucca and squint till boss-eyed, purblind,
I miss the goings-on altogether…
Grimbeau 