Magic Realism | Grimbeau

January 9, 2015

Cuban Heels

The mist lifts, revealing droopy,

vernal, Amazonian gloop.

Parallax, do my eyes sin?

In the clearing, by the wheelie- bin

The sure sign of alien matter

on the ground,

Gin Pink, silver-bowed, twenty some.

Beside these espadrilles, wellies, moccasins,

Clogs, Hush Puppies, Wellingtons…

Meaningful action of a sort,

concrete intent shown

But no feet in sight to date,

A gradual escalation,

Built on compromise,

a virtuous circle of footwear

Like a fairy ring,

a presence in the region.

Something’s afoot

Nearing completion

After the socks,

come the feet and arms.

January 9, 2015

Laundry

Good, that stopped the table wobbling!

Went out for a quiet garden moment,

just as I was warming in the soft sun

of early autumn, the army commenced

lawnmower war next door. Disappointed my

plans were scuppered, but undeterred to gain

nothing from my venture, I fetched the washing

from the line and back indoors, though failing

to spur the idle into action, I

consoled myself with the thought of green socks.

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January 8, 2015

Phlogiston

Sun inside, sun outside, hens free.

It’s quarter to three: to my right is a hyacinth blue hyacinth,

elsewhere a dove coos.

Why no workies?

Smirkies, shirkies, quirkies…

Focal plane down the drain.

Drip.

Woke on the water, choir in the sky.

Lost habit, out of the swing.

Naked apeshit visit.

Longers.

Two two two will not do: simply nots.

Time not spent at it.

…

Pomes and yarns roam and darn days, nights, hours and showers: eats, drinks, & sleeps. That’s the trick, Mick.

Here’s a right one.

Duck!

Crystal was shattered. Ratty Vanfrau was at the ablates again. Queer going altogether. Formegandros was a right old wrench to leave. Never spurn a taverna. Still tempers fugit…

`His head’s gone.` observed the rookie.

‘Tis the time of year for it.’ said the chainsaw massacre cast.

‘Not that bloody rubbish again.’ Cried the crowd, aloud.

Castlemaine was a horny bitch for King & Gentry alike. Insatiable in cerise tights, pacing the Home Office, looking frantic for a booster.

‘She cooked your goose, Sir.’ Said the minion, Vince, up for a good twatting.

‘As waltzers go sir, she’s a dodgem.’ Castlemaine stomped.

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December 21, 2014

Panoptica

What a slothful Tom!

Skinless dirigible on asphalt deck.

Clavicle take off and soft landing.

Clankety-clunk,

Junk or dhobi?

Heinz number nine,

Rubi one Kenobi; ibis eons, zweye,

in the house: dry. Sontag afternun.

sister lulu, father zulu…

A marriage made in heaven. Bless’em.

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December 16, 2014

Spuke

Quite a Wok.

Urizen-frozen Fell

the frozen, lurid

mud Grey mod.

What Budgerigar?

Or plumed fallow

grazing dark dimensions

such as these:

saying thussly.

`your dreams shine without you or me

capably…’

taking of notice. I wrote these words when

I realised that, given scant regard,

we are

Diahann:

the weakened

flutterby.

December 7, 2014

Wenceslas! He Dead

Kiss my fetid arse, he mock Royal Family chortled,

and muttered chagrined at the Shrewsbury Six,

the Famous Five, and the silver sixpence

he always found coz he kept it in his waistcoat pocket.

He won’t get it this year. After all, it’s just

a feastday afternoon in the middle

of deep, dark december- a bit of fun.

So riot and dissemble, be not alone,

think of the others who have mice for family,

dining daintily on nice nibbles while

fellow peasants crave more presents and

pudding. So much to do and so little

time. Time to get it right. Just right. Surely,

that’s life after all is said and done.

A fuss about nothing, just sage & thyme

stuffing around since this time last year,

a plateful of woe, a glass full of tears.

And Uncle Norman’s toast.

Bless him.

‘Glaze your arses and roast myrhh hadyustate!

Cheers, my hearty farties,

don’t’ let it get you down,

tart it up in coriander,

and offer up your crown.’

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November 21, 2014

Seeing Things

kept from the saddle by sleep and cider,

nestled in this cluttered room, this dimlit

hibernation station, wallow fallow in

the gathered gloom, the afternoon moon

this is the time for those who dream in daytime,

those who gather and hunt, those who like me

watch from windows, making shade from shadow,

form from substance, the things that dreams are made on.

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November 19, 2014

for her

She got seen like

Clytemnestra

a knowing smile

a complex gesture

November 17, 2014

Sophist

The Vulture Man’s

a shallow fellow,

his words well said,

his thoughts chrome yellow

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November 17, 2014

Tour de Trance

No milk

to cry over:

traffic and bollard,

pothole and hedgehog,

flood and folly. All delay delivery.

Try your best without.

Think Wartime,

make and mend,

a stitch in time,

careless talk

costs lives

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Tag: Magic Realism