…mad rush phantom turd
fear false alarm no bombs
all clear for now slip back
down fizzy coffee.
air room fug.
World flora crown sill:
red rose,
cactus rose and aloe vera,
baby cactus rose,
yucca – George the summat,
stray leafy leaf
avoids peach tobacco
stage curtains,
old small paned iron strip windows,
titan thickening privet
sprouting lawn,
brick brown semi
some big trees hide
simple horizon
planeless skies
Coming up to six.
End of nice days
after tomorrow
just
for a few weeks.
Auric sun on pink wall,
new bronze age.
Savers saved,
survivors not.
So no cause for concern
then:
Sufficient unto the day
is the evil thereof?
Oxen stare out
ankle deep in mud
catch a flaxen
burst of lux gold sax.
The procession nears:
Madame Charcot,
her Footmen,
borne by
mute lace makers.
They pass,
Waving waxen,
lit by Tilley Lamp
and near full
plumb
moon.
Here to replace
the sleeper.
Then
After that
Matins and Martini.
Misery lurks in the long grass,
armless and still,
like good gone west.
No post today
Blog and door.
Busy
being unknown by
and to the outside world.
Inside
howsoever
the world was
mad hectic:
sitting reading, eating,
staring, smiling, scowling,
snarling, sighing, tutting
spitting, speaking, saging,
mulling, musing, chuckling,
nodding, turning, snooping,
slurping, sighing, smoking,
standing, stepping, shaking…
That’s Quite Enough
words commencing
with ‘s’ for now.
Clouds over,
have a grey
smoke – good is
always too
good to last.
Glanced at this
‘…golden words
turn to dust,
war makes you
platitudinous…’
Thinks: Duckbill
Platypus.
A boring
genius
scatters wise
word seed on
stony ground.
Duck Bill sees.
Eats them quick
before the
blue parrots.
Slips back in billabong.
Polygon.
Bright green bus,
Blonde dressed black,
Sun kissed feet
‘Good morning!’
Yesterday
was pure good
sunlight all the way
today the bricks
are happy and
light hearted
I am bronzed.
Like Homer.
An hour later
the faff is on.
Sun is out,
chicks tweet
in ply fascia,
ulster hymns hum,
care will come
and relieve
Mafeking
peace and quiet
Thick fog, drooping rose…
daybreak,
soft pink sound
footpad breaking glass,
crystal chandelier smashed:
avalanche,
no wonder,
wrists swaddled
heavy
linen
watch.
Tried to think up some words
about Dad
and
got no further than the death event,
clearer now than ever,
calmer,
or so it seems.
Should feel more hurt,
of course,
wear a flag of woe.
Or black with good cause.
And Mean it.
Thirty fucking years ago.
Now we both have no teeth and bad feet,
I trumped you with the wheelchair:
No huffing there.
Losing hair as well, but not white yet.
Far from it.
Not like you at twenty-two.
I lay in the same corner as you now,
on a hospital bed.
Not dead, just resting.
Days gone grey cloud shrouds.
Not the end of the world, you know.
Beeps off.
Lamplight on.
Mood: Satanic.
Push back cloth cap,
stand on one leg, dodgy ankle,
gaze at yew tree, feel the cold wind,
pack up and go off to no good.
Walk and chew
and suck the graves
from your black nails,
tongue and swallow
a bit of grit.
Spit.
A car goes by.
Lights just go on.
Bins out tonight:
Recyling Day.
You’ve got to laugh.
Goes with the job:
A graveyard wit.
Grimbeau 