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.
Grimbeau
Scroodles
Tag: Literature
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.
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
June 29, 2014
Pondlife
Up it is:
dithered, dawdled, dallied.
Barnes out: Barnes in.
Door shut and locked.
Took pills,
tectonic shift,
Subterranean Bogseat Blues.
Poohs.
Ah-aarghs.
It’s Alive!
groaning, churning, burning.
Awakenings: pondlife.
Crawling vision.
POV:
Thing gropes
Pathless:
mud, reed, slime, sludge
for warm, dry land.
Slow as a Boa.
Protozoa.
June 28, 2014
Deuterium Climes
Rain, sultry rain.
Opaque grapes,
leaden sky fruit,
burst on copious,
oil dark
plush olive,
swooning,
spaded,
luscious leaves.
Three chirrup
kaleidoscope toucans
tenderly engage
a dopey puffin then
hunker down within
the livid dense canopy
to share a light
repast of slender wafers
over a convivial round
of knock out whist.
Tuesdays,
no matter the weather,
is Housey-Housey,
a rainforest favourite
throughout the ages.
Beastlings from yards
Around always
Attend
June 27, 2014
WHeel
I
am
Blessed of
A
Multi-
Personality
Disgorger:
What about you?
June 26, 2014
Changelings
Some things
one finds
are too
personal
to put in to words,
or any other form,
they are
incommunicado
and will remain so
until the cows come home
or hell freezes over
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
Grimbeau 