A Bird: tender & anxious
Soft…
What light
Through yonder
Window breaks?
Ssssh!
Merely
A wayward
Cormorant
Called Deirdre
Or so I heard
Grimbeau
Scroodles
Tag: Journal
July 3, 2014
Angleterre
When I once sat upon a bench
I felt that I was almost French
July 3, 2014
Byrdsongs
Talk is Buses:
Pubic transport
Greenline fine?
Not grotesque
But Divine
July 3, 2014
Qualm
Freaky vibes, cold, shivery.
On the brightest day it gets dark,
extreme breeds extreme,
bipolar is not an axis,
no high or low
like prices or buildings,
it is unproscribable.
There are no absolutes
Just givens.
Warmer now.
July 2, 2014
El Syd
Mood Impetigo:
Rose petal
Spikenard.
Taking Town Drain
Clueless
Bubo Black
Tuba
July 2, 2014
Whimball Grooves
Fresh, smooth,
honey enthrals me
floats me
casts me off .
Pork chops, bud planting proposed:
hope springs eternal.
Farce of habit.
No scruples,
too forced lately,
going to work for its ownsake.
Leave it to settle, Mr Pushy-Git for
‘You cannot manage
what you cannot measure.’
Love?
10cc…comes in spurts.
Henless heads, dustbin laden.
Pot posits kettle:
‘You are black.’
Read and rest
after aftershocks.
Lux and lug.
Whimball grooves.
July 1, 2014
Rainbow Gift
The moon is a rock,
a rock that drives the tide.
The affairs of men
must heed the tide.
An old Moon woman told me that,
I didn’t listen,
talking in runes
I concluded.
But the tide in the affairs
of this man
left me high and dry
waiting for a new moon.
Sat marooned, sat in the offing,
bobbing in the
Sea of Tranquillity.
Another man in the moon.
We are a close knit
community,
keep ourselves to ourselves
as much as we can.
Sometimes when the sun’s
brute sirocco blasts things go haywire,
but you got to take the rough
with the smooth sometimes,
whether you remember
the smooth or not.
June 30, 2014
Write Terse Block
Stories swim amorphous, like Chagall sprites:
teasing & taunting, winding me rightup,
shitty harpies, chicken livers, shit lilies,
pallet knife smears, chaff and ribwort, fly blight,
wormcast, hot iron in the hole.
Answer: stop poetising, not everything.
Opaque craving: not waving, just raving.
Lunchlines. Lasagne to go; no salad leaves!
All are suspects. Whatdunnit? Poison milk,
Croak & Crosswell. Condensed gift:
dilute & quaff off this myrtle quoit.
Late, great Spooner. Leave oxtail by town drain.
Quit the spritz, Turd policeman.
Bottom inspectors of the world: ignite!
Social lurkers, shadow shams. Now you see:
Now! You donut. Dream of scrumptiousness,
crack of doom. Dunderhead heard: Thunderbird said:
“Five minutes & we’re almost there.”
June 30, 2014
Slobbo
the easy way out dogs my every step –
I call it Slobbo.
It is a shadow,
reeks of burgers and pickles,
farts and burps at will,
drinks like a trooper,
smokes like a fish.
it is white at night.
it sings, shouts, and staggers then.
I watch it from my
silken hammock
fuming
June 30, 2014
as i rolled out…
Elegiac:
it rolled out one summer’s morning,
thick roll-up in one hand
tar strong coffee in the other,
halted atop the ramp
to take dappled light
took this picture:
green wheelbarrow homes
old yellow milkcrate
left side of
giant cypress treetrunk;
three paving slabs
lean leftside
propping up three
intact mauve
plastic sacks
(compost) .
Generally the earth is parched grey, arid, and ill lit.
This is a gravelly land, conifers did well here till
the buildings cropped up to replace them.
Down the hill is a loamy valley, which floods a lot.
These were the fields where the villagers
who lived up here in the pinewoods worked.
It is called Clayhill
Grimbeau 