Happy is the man who can bear the things he cannot change – Schiller
Each time insurgent
Wind surges spank opulent
crimson drapes and naughty
gusts arouse dormant
gooseberries on exposed,
soft wanton thighs all sigh
Lush,
chocolate ground juice
breaches ripe knapsacks,
glibly squirting,
soiling deep plush pile rug.
On
garish cushions we float maculate:
spoiled flotsam; jetsam of anarchy,
Two headed orphans
scowling quadrophrenes
brazen twisted Sisters scream.
Let us pause for smoke and prayer…
Teeming sardines in the Arab Sea
A billion starlings over the Fens
Sensing food and predator.
Poor old religion gets another lambast
Courtesy of these withered digits
Hens in the back are revealed as angels,
a blackbird coyly juggles rats
Louche, pleasant, twisted opiate dreams.
The bayou shoulders slow magnolia
Grits for slow, big, muddy river that quivers
Magnificent regardful like a python
Weighing up the yearly weenie
…in the Jacuzzi of good and evil
Lights going out around here. It will be soon.
Two disconsolate blackbirds hop and wobble
on the lumpy lawn of mud runs,
wet dark brown leaves,
and old dog turds of autumn.
Swift smoke streams, light grey wafts
and heavy laden, leaden clouds
rush on the blasting, frantic wind.
Stoic conifers and bare trees bend
and unbend, weave, give and lean.
The rosebush drips heavy fruit, unsteady silver water.
The hens gather silent in their hovel.
Safe as a puffball in a hotpress
wise beggars under feather sacks
in a draughty corner on a damp straw floor.
Fed and quartered on beds edge.
The cold sun sinks, limp shadow
wraiths strewn screeds, scatty notes,
forgotten glimpses of time pledged
dreaming word dreams, now merely
ungainly ugly doodles.
Weak, sloppy, turgid, grey
premises of yarns & plays.
No, just throw them all away,
The black bin bag is waiting:
You only have to turn around.
‘Snow is not thick on the ground’
Hopeless weatherwomen say
When nobody is watching.
So, poor thing you lost a leg
&
kept your feet.
Do you need
a garter, a kneepad,
or some spare
Trouser legs?
You only need to ask
see the bright
from the dark.
Tell me what you see,
Grasshopper?
Loosen
Dismantle that cord leash
Get to know a feather boa.
Feel fine hair attend your neck,
Floss, gossamer and flim.
‘Who was that me once know’
Mister Morphosis sinuated.
Giggle on the down slope
Hands off: Freewheeling.
Joy for Joy’s sake
Cherish the maybes
Let regret fleet
A phase of years
Some are called days
Better to have lost and loved
Than never to have lost at all.
Napalm funburst sunset, oilslick bitter tears
Give way to pork smells, rumbaba, cockatoos
Squawk, rustles of last gasp, reeling tigers,
plangent oozing, floating, clades and phylums
make touching, silken, floating islands.
What is to do today, to what end?
Option plop is number one.
Option fresh coffee is an ambition.
Option edit does me credit.
Other options are optional.
Rabbits and Guinea fowl
Smiley too will play a part.
Frost becomes Frimaire
Event horizon out of sight
In dusk dissembling tobacco ochre
standard light.
I cannot see what is or is not to be.
Only others see hour hands slow down and catch
a halted final glimpse of this afternoon
Tomorrow is Oxford without parking or me.
Remember the Alibi: amputated neck.
Sick note. Be flat. Play doggo. Stay warm.
Cocoon safe baby bunting.
Snug as a mug in a hug.
All is plight.
Begloved hands ring with pain.
Sing song blue.
Little Green Lies.
Grimbeau 