The
fragmented head surveys itself
quick clips of a factive dream.
The
perspective is from below.
It is indoors.
The
street scene is frugal,
the sky is blue.
The
feeling is anxious
A pressing engagement.
The
train is soporific,
uncomfortable
The
taxi rank is fresh, niggly,
and jumpy.
The
taxi journey is relief
detachment pause
The Antiques Roadshow
A shock ending.
Scrimmed Femur
The
ending is exhausted, querulous.
Sunlit indifference abounds
“We have to remember that what we observe is not nature in itself, but nature exposed to our method of questioning.” – Werner Heisenberg
Sunshine after rain.
One will come soon.
So…Relax, wind down,
Never mind
it was just
The usual let you downs.
Then…Inflate, blow up,
Never mind
it was just
the usual pink suspects:
Six blind elephants from
The Flat Man .
Six is a number for elephants.
Elephants is not a number.
She was known to have the wrong name,
(a clerical faux pas committed by Gerald
While eating a falafel after a
Good bollocking from Mrs. Godzilla
for being late in again.)
The corpse lived at No Fixed Abode
as did Wallace Pidgeon
the woman with her real name,
who rented the cellar.
It was all too much for Geraldine,
So, she just rifled the personal effects
for good pickings,
secreted them in the shallow,
nylon pocket of her too tight tunic,
pulled the sheet over the head,
and checked for recent texts.
Lunchtime
News about the news:
Observe basking sharks,
lost lopsided lilies,
slumping in the lagoon
pump waters from people’s homes
busy Nessies, little lochs,
tiny monsters of the shallows.
Waterlogged logs sink from sight,
nervous wrecks shiver
in Lazy Bones’ Locker.
No way, Jose!
Smart Alec McMackerel.
Wessex is the wetland of Alba.
Let it drown.
Paint your bum blue.
Join us: Stay dry.
See Soggies flood North in droves.
Border turnpike takes groats only.
Frack Ben Nevis.
Rip off Groatland.
Yawn. Nodding off…
Done in after all the sleep and squatting…
bills, deeds, duties, musts,
cant’s, coulds, shoulds, woulds;
daydawdledoodles.
Doze snooze nap?
And why not?
Afternoon off again…Tut, tut, tut.
Go a good brisk clip
‘Are you the captain, the crewman,
the passenger, the vessel,
the ocean?’
Chance is Lord of All!
Metaphoric…
Metamorphic…
Metarapchik…
Metamonster!
Gorgeous Krakens
and other deep creatures
engulf us
disguised as waves.
Crisp white linen sheets
on the hill
cracked and billowed
on the line
Stark wild clouds
flee eastward.
Wry, cow-towing
pines obey the storm
under the window,
under the pink drapes
Whimsy murmurs:
Rowan will Live.
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
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.’
…real but invisible,
defined but uncertain,
yesterday and tomorrow.
For forever and a day.
The sheer never, never,
Neverendishnessness…
…And you, fellow sucker,
And me over here, shallow fucker,
bob about in these
shark-infested waters,
Quints ready for the taking,
Bamboos and rubber Treeplants.
Some people work
for a living.
I write…
Sometomes.
Grimbeau 