Surly, vexed, mumbling, bumbling,
swallowing down bile and spleen
a small bird hops past on the sill!
A fair coin tossed.
Whist!
A farced chant, grumbling like an alp.
Shannon mare dream
Shrill oboe scream:
Hector! Hold your horses.
The kettle’s finished boiling.
The past will someday
be the same again.
Let us
Lay.
Is Samarkand
Pink Samarkand
Under those dishes?
There!
I see
golden onion domes,
rippled & various,
Serrate deep blue.
Above
Kites float
perusing plump shrew
on perfect thermals,
circling empty biplanes
She
Yellow
Cowled, pock-marked
Pale chuff faced,
Sidles,
Stumbles
Ghostly
Inside Chapel Cell,
Her Holy hidey-hole,
Up the duff,
recently gin & needled
She
dropped like a sock,
and in that drop got
relegated,
denigrated,
emasculated from Herstory,
babeless scrawl on nameless wall.
No net
you see:
no more net
Nanette.
Shoulder roller
Savonarola
swimming backwards
In shirt infested waters.
Pause for Jaws:
Basking post-prandial,
Replete of:
Bellyful of Quint,
skinny dipper,
Stray Daytripper,
clumsy nipper.
My luck is in!
Time to try
Some butterfly
The power set at constant max
Mind’s Eye emerges from start surge to
pure pace
A golden arrow flashes darting past.
Lee J Cobb. Wrong Cobb. Donald?
No, that was Campbell.
Google it, live & learn.
Pull the search engine up,
load it with a boulder, wind it up, and release.
Downwind we hear
no screams or impact
As if it never happened
After Sylvester evensong, Loyola piped up:
‘Out with the Pianola!’
And
(As Nasturtiums have for donkey’s years)
We were ready to kick out the jambs
The Easter Lambs & heaven could wait a quarter
Priscilla the Pig, our Abbot, dressed as Emile Zola
Got the ball rolling with the much lauded Tombola.
A fine thing, like some tradition,
The Tombola of the Tropaeolum:
We put our Bull into a hat
Pull out the winner
And a new year
Doctrine is chosen
A fresh true rumour
To add to the credo
This is followed by
A game of sardines
An eternal favourite
I
have neither direct pictorial
nor documentary evidence for it,
my first quarter on earth,
except
what those directly involved have told me,
confirmed by their satellites.
All a bit vague if you think about it
The first thought is adoption,
the second hospital error,
third,
unwanted from a relative or neighbour;
alien invasion,
Son of God,
& Timewarps
follow once you start.
(At least it was not Shandy Hall and its annoying horology).
I
did see my mum from time to time
in her incubated space.
She smiled from hollow cheeks
fought the maggots eating the belly wound
from where I had been sprung.
My dad was shy and did not get pushy
about seeing me till things calmed down a bit.
He did not pick me up and rock me till we got home:
After he did I never cried again, it is said.
Slumbered awhile,
Wee sunny spell,
Sleepy glimpse
Tucked up flurry
eider-down duvet,
Mink stole furor.
Purr as a bear purrs.
Growl meets rumble:
Grumbles
Rum Bellows
Galactic dawn,
wet as water:
Ponds ’r’ Us!
Like a mucky duck
the weatherman
walks on warm, thin ice,
looking up anxiously
Sees
serene green scene
creams obscene
at tulips pouting,
kind epileptic fish,
sanguine potholed saucepans
latterday Saturday vertebrae.
Endless list: catalyst.
We swoon,
shrug it off,
embrace
&
turnover leaves
Head of
The essential difficulty with Mssr Grimbeau’s
pomes is that they are crap & drivel
Clap-clap!
self-knowledge is
a wonderful thing.
Grimbeau 