Bacon, egg & jungle sarnie,
two bags ready, and an early banana –
that’s my lot, plus crash sleep
(an hour maybe).
Scrubbed scrammed black mirror hob:
Bit of ritual to settle my nerves,
my confusion at that van out there,
and that nagging
constant distant
roaring machine
behind the sky.
Wednesday afternoon
As savants well know
is never certain & could hang either way.
You never know, you just like to pretend.
Grey paint is my usual,
matted not glossed,
ruffled and talced
certainly not groomed
by Governess Pecheur.
Her mild odour
Cologne and cat nip
perverts my lust for
kedgeree and fauve cheeses
capitalism
twenty four seven racket
rancorous fledglings
The Holy Hour
Plenary indulgences
Carrot cake seconds
A jingle in the dingle,
a dongle in the shrub,
a riddle on a fiddle,
the median of middle.
Stepping out in running blues,
shouting ‘Still here, your twerps and twonks!’
who wished me gone for yonks.
Net curtain snideys,
hanging out dry washing
on crooked lines
just to block out the sun.
Gruel!
Trucks splayed on winceyette
Paperbacked up by thumbsail rigging.
Thieved, not in the slightest borrowed
Robbed, not pure good lend-lease film fan
Ships of Liberty cargoing
Senile bananas to far flung
Gerontocracies
These dodgems
Run by ruffians with friends
In low places: naked ventriloquists
Licking smarmphones of pox.
Rant!
Bang the wall against your head
Laughing warm inside when you find
It is only made of tapioca.
Covetous:
It is my stingray!
The screams stopped all shopping in earshot.
Mine (assertive).
Mine (plaintive, filling up, wait for it)
…Mine (balling, stamping, screaming).
Uproar.
The law is present, masculine,
portentous and plump.
A strident protest, indeed.
Young fellow, m’lad!
Trespassers will be prosecuted
Whether they like it or not.
Have a pear drop.
Music soothes the savage breast.
Death Metal springs to mind.
Put on your rusty chain mail vest.
Go find an axe to grind.
Roaring to the chemist
On your zimmer frame
The traffic cops then did you
For pissing in a drain
Fined or sent to prison
Condemned to spend your time
Moaning at the bus stop
It never leaves on time.
Here comes the sun to have a laugh,
a snigger, a check it out, a gloat at
little lives playing themselves out in safe,
unhappy scripts:
polishing, dusting, painting crypts.
Rolling tiffs, thinking cliffs, wind blowing quiffs,
In skipper’s beards, fucking weird.
And I sit in judgement. How fucking weird is that?
When I take the air and roam
the tombstones and monuments
the iron door clicks ajar –
the cycle is complete.
Only now the air is sound
is it safe to do the rounds.
When I check the last twitch,
the most challenging flitch,
the one at the top
of the heap grips the grill.
A zither plays loud mad brash.
I pull my sword and euthanize him.
Then & only then the loading can commence…
Grimbeau 