Grimbeau

Scroodles

Tag: Homelessness

Pluvius drops by

While showering the rains came down. Heard a squeak. Oiled the loom. A lightness rare assailed the room. The squeak was the fire alarm laughing. There was no roof to speak of.

Grumblin’ Jock Spruce considers…

564-dog-927246

 

matters of style and technique, approaches, points of view and sacred, boxed in genre put me right
first thing in the morning. Most days listen for a convenient excuse to be deterred and wonder why you feel desperate and frustrated!
Last night was the coldest of this year. All the vulnerable people are dead. Time for a new start— sounds harsh,
that’s the way the cookie crumbles when posh comes to shove. I look forward with rage to the slender frozen sea and contemplate the seasons
try not to be such a smartass playing with stolen uranium or Persephone will hang around for long, infertile weeks
dialogue is all you have in an oral culture, says the radio to itself and move on to what’s trending on social media
the Scriblerus Club convenes on the Mall for its Festive knees-up and annual not much to report but Grenfell now

Toe & Froe

Visog

Grimbeau

Back again at just gone ten
after a power breakfast
with Mr Clay, Ms Self, and the Demi-urge.
A frozen garden, a propped
up green wheelbarrow glued
to an icy rotary clothes line.
Frost suspends decay of jungle beanplants.

What else did you see?
Or hear? Or taste? Or touch? Or smell?

Fields in collision, tectonic plates lying shattered,
or just another trad night down the Greeks.
I see.
So thought Inspector Spangle, flicking through
the photos from scenes of crime:
no time, no space, just action
invisible, eternal delight,
energy in a bun dance.
What could be less clear than that?

Yea, housing, phone calls, Victoria Derbyshire…

I know, I know, I know. Stop nagging me!
It’s all work in progress.

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