Wind whips rain into a lather, suds flop
coating the gunny sacks of chrysalides.
In lamb we trust, mint sauce spooned, vinaigrette,
in dollop, drizzle, cavalier splashes,
and in gravy swilled figure of eights.
Suds slip down in dirt, super, saturated
soil where rose and weed fear to bed in wont
of oblivion, just when you least expect
a dandy bramble jallops the windowpanes.
No rest for the wicked, it tattoos.
looking out…
soft sighs and shrugs, sees
squalid sheets charge hedgeward.
Origin: the sea,
Which enters with flourish, flushed,
proscenium left.
Orange house recedes inland,
Lazy sill whippet sees me,
We conflate
with waving cypress,
All the same:
spraybent.
Upstart blasts
stale room,
hurricane farce of wrappers whorl,
vortex forms
in comet
crater
hemisphere
How they chunter!
Tales of dogs,
chickenshit,
the dank,
the undoable in mud,
steep bare beds,
sheer stony crud.
Sipping soup
Under bivouac
Pigeon holed,
ensconced,
mordant
no spade plunges,
no plant grows.
Rice next year
Paddy fields forever
Roll up your trousers,
sport a lampshade
on your head,
Erect a pagoda
On Glastonbury Tor.
Drowning in the noises of black sea beach,
Ruby boyhood daydream in the winter hall,
transported from dull to duller :
a February vacation.
Call them Martin and Matilda, twins with
no redeeming features, seven years,
staring out the tiny attic window
as the rain came down in bullet lines.
They peeped from the corrugated hay barn
across the weeded concrete.
In that black plastic was a mushroom of horsefeed,
ready to be given out.
They shared secret oilcake to settle the rumbling bellies,
gothic caverns, avenues blood lit and sumptuous.
I cut my nails and parts of me appear
to touch as if it were the first time.
They touch warm scuffed chromium, solid and secure.
A distant puck of patter,
and the churning buttermilk of linen stir and lapse,
contained by the shadow of muttercup.
Yipes!
Either
the desk is higher
Or
the chair is lower.
One or both,
Or…
I am smaller.
Eek a squeak!
A Diva dives
A yappy, fledgling chirrups:
‘Where’s my grubs?’
‘Downunder.’
I call
From my eggshell
“We have to remember that what we observe is not nature in itself, but nature exposed to our method of questioning.” – Werner Heisenberg
Sunshine after rain.
One will come soon.
So…Relax, wind down,
Never mind
it was just
The usual let you downs.
Then…Inflate, blow up,
Never mind
it was just
the usual pink suspects:
Six blind elephants from
The Flat Man .
Six is a number for elephants.
Elephants is not a number.
…clear new calm morning
blooms:
bright sky blue, golden glint,
pulsars thrill thawing
laurel leaf and stream.
Go a good brisk clip
‘Are you the captain, the crewman,
the passenger, the vessel,
the ocean?’
Chance is Lord of All!
Metaphoric…
Metamorphic…
Metarapchik…
Metamonster!
Gorgeous Krakens
and other deep creatures
engulf us
disguised as waves.
Crisp white linen sheets
on the hill
cracked and billowed
on the line
Stark wild clouds
flee eastward.
Wry, cow-towing
pines obey the storm
under the window,
under the pink drapes
Whimsy murmurs:
Rowan will Live.
Look at that there,
over there it is,
there… a Rusty Bard,
you see?
Lolling by the lungfish
Look! Look at it, slobbing about,
drowsing, drooling,
pig-eared, cloven:
Troughing dross,
gorging oozing slurry.
Hose it down! Prodsticks!
Gercha-gerraway
Squealsnapspit…Snort off
smarting with shock,
grunts, sulks, and silks.
Grimbeau 