Scriptic
chilling on a Friday night,
leaning,
preening
running down an empty street,
blindfold,
screaming
waiting by a waterfall,
fearless,
dreaming
standing in the summer sun,
precious,
beaming
Grimbeau
Scroodles
Tag: Home
February 2, 2015
Clockularity
I saw her on my morning
The middle of her night
Blocking the toilet in
Hospital light
I will see her later on
On her morning
And we will argue
about fuck all
This evening in the middle
Of her day
The washing machine will
Stop me from napping
We will eat supper for lunch
And I will dream of
Thermo-Nuclear War
December 24, 2014
Metempsychosis
The temptation to waffle about memories is maple syrup,
something about marked cards, that sort of gooey stuff.
& The very thought of getting into that is just plain
toxic.
Not that I am denying it,
you understand
I just don’t want
to go through all of that.
here and now is where it’s never at.
So, here it is.
Plaintive baroque trumpet sighs
Fanfare, mazurka, and microwave tympani.
Brief running tap crescendo. Mug clunk, bottle top slide.
Faraway, out of sight, a libation is incubating.
The soft clock needs a pacemaker.
Something black is scraped.
A dog crunches twiglets.
the spray distorted blowing of a nose.
A strong clunk of mug.
An awakening.
Something ominous issues from the brass section.
The clock temporarily revives.
An unclear, disembodied voice rings
& reads out an address and claims
that now we have Tchaikovsky for company…
Coughs from above.
An ailing whaling gull?
Creation elation eschews
a humming loo,
Five short bursts enough
precision bombing.
Second wave,
chalk comes up.
The ball was in, man!
August 30, 2014
Bystanders
Attempts to engage
& inspire provide
Mere, cheap free
fatuous masonry
to bolster up
& elaborate her
Forty fictions;
So, off he traipsed,
hill sheep sullen
to wattle
& daub the beehive
against the elements;
Brittle bricks
& poor mortar
for fear’s shiftless,
feckless gaol:
Self.
I give up &
concern myselves
otherwise.
In confluence,
separation lies.
June 26, 2014
Cinders
Too sad to write,
wash my quill in saline
then candle quash.
Thrift shines,
lights the copper scuttle carving
a giant shadow
on hearth
matter
March 23, 2014
Act of Warship
Sunday.
All day.
Lamb chops,
mash or baked.
Oven.
What else?
A Leek.
Fags, need fags.
How?
Conscripts & regulars.
Shit…
Entropy
March 22, 2014
Anabasis
Four no rule,
no measure years,
just got back mid-morning:
soft landing,
natives just the same, not me;
too much time to think, you see,
so everything is good or bad up there.
Back with a head full of seaweed, razor
whale gore,
syphilis and carnage. Whodunit?
Ask the guy in the looking glass. He say:
Author of your own destruction
with a little help from your
acknowledgements.
Left is right.
Right is left.
No turning back
You know too much
March 11, 2014
Hugh
Tried to think up some words
about Dad
and
got no further than the death event,
clearer now than ever,
calmer,
or so it seems.
Should feel more hurt,
of course,
wear a flag of woe.
Or black with good cause.
And Mean it.
Thirty fucking years ago.
Now we both have no teeth and bad feet,
I trumped you with the wheelchair:
No huffing there.
Losing hair as well, but not white yet.
Far from it.
Not like you at twenty-two.
I lay in the same corner as you now,
on a hospital bed.
Not dead, just resting.
February 14, 2014
Largesse
The fruit of my labour
so far today
Sits over in a
Modest plastic bag
Amidst other items,
It is well
out-of-the-way,
conveniently
located.
‘Shifting Metaphor’ the bag reads,
inscribed
in very gooseberry green above
The
Iconic bitten fruit (an apple?).
A wasp draft flicks it,
it tumbles giddily and
comes to rest
On a too full
smudged yellow
pedal bin,
I explode
My fruits are strewn
all
over the scintillating,
brick-red non-slip
Linoleum.
Howling now
I watch them perish,
wither and vanish,
delight
full tiny
Twinkles
Marasmus done
the voided quasars
dance quick,
nimble polkas to dash
the conic lampshade
So,
like Orgones
and
reason do –
We Sleep
February 5, 2014
Moniker Called By…
Chatting small, enduring twaddle and passing comment on the news,
the wonderful weather, Ents and death trances, and
recent sightings of drunken old muckers puking on poodles
Every so often there are smartphone snapshots of dormant pets,
a dinner dance after a few, a flying saucer over Tesco’s,
the paddling pool in the back garden, and some baby humans.
During tales of goings-on in times past, the clock is seen, nattering over.
Down to brass tacks: hoovering, bed-making, tidying, graft, filling in forms.
Today I am torn between Albert Camus or Kermit the Frog: I sign ‘Dean Martin.’
Grimbeau 