Didn’t John Lennon
get shot round now?
December…
Feels just about right.
Nineteen eighty what?
Thirty five years ago,
or so,
Swansea,
late slate
afternoon,
around about four.
Got up and switched on the box.
Programme interrupted.
Tchaikovsky piano
concerto repeating, scratched,
the 3rd or 4th.
Man, that was bleak.
Live in one room save on heat.
Never happy, never happy.
Everything is blog
Post it immediately
Editing is dead
End of time for reflection
Winter Palace mirrors purr
five
still alive
jive
hey! american writers out there
why are you so stuck up so on yourselves?
no freedomblues
no bluesudes shoes
( here comes the graphic!)
break it down
make it right
You
eastermondate
isdoingupmyhead;
frage:
isit
moglicH?
that
You feel
A
Bit
Besser?
Growing colder fast,
sat wrapped up under
duvet,
sporting historic giant purple Woolly.
‘Long Arm’s, hasn’t he?’ said the mother knowingly.
‘Yes, very’ replied the daughter: curtly.
Cutely.
The arms on the blue one are very odd
The measurements were given over the
Telephone:
In real time.
She Sings Good
Way downstream in
Sleeping Waters rise
Spring tides surge.
How very dare I meet her now,
brave the dangerous voyage?
The grass lies down in the valley below
Where milk cows ominous sit.
After hands work scripts that never end
Dawn to dusk when the cuckoo spits
So,
we
offer up
these
well-prepped
ants testes
to you
gods
of the
firm
ament
for
the
fecund
ditty
of this our
crop of love
age.
Be nice
for this
once,
we
have grown
tired
of
Grimbeau 