Posing on the pooper scooper
Rowing caressers dip oars in
The music of time:
Flutes…
Lutes…
Pipes…
Silver dipped sails billow. Below
punkahs wallah cupididly the fans.
Ruddered Graces – Nereids,
Drape golden richly perfumed cloth
Of gold
Whose scent
Wafts the dumbstruck multitudes
Asleep
The mob has gone.
Bob is making
rolls with sausages in them.
A thirty four is shut: northward bound.
Wish I was a Phoenix.
Sometimes
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.
11:46
Rain.
Poll & Nob been and gone.
Sloth sleeps so no shouts.
Me: wetsuit gloved, coffeed up, watched replays of yesterday and now:
what?
Dog just barked, commode getting wet by coalhole.
-Wannawork?
-Should really. Falling behind. Angsty.
Something about green gauze bugs me.
Cannot spell chrysanthemuns.
Can you? Smart, uh.
Now where was i.
Miss call: med at four-thirty,
crying along to baby blue,
dead time.
Weeping real tears,
old voices of old friends in the messenger,
dead romans,
Nile vipers, alabaster elephant pups;
dimwit twisted garrets,
dimlit deep sea divers,
cement boots, aquarium skidlids.
Down the lane
at the hanged man’s house
wild beasts drive,
whistle in the woods,
absinthe oglers
naked ladies
paddle in Pull-in’s Pond.
Tears stream down cheeks,
bandanas lattice plaits of stars,
milky ways of cast off
unravelling cloth.
Acknowledge the bible
scribblers on the credits,
disappointed briefs
and wiseacres arrange things
good and proper…warm blooded nappies charm the sinews,
joints glow:
perhaps a cosy nap
before crisp morning
cracks the whip.
As if
people
have
nothing
better
to do
than this:
Bards often write verses
For others in hearses
A tory most crass, loud, and pompous
Created a row and a rumpus
After saying the needy
Were lazy and greedy
They ate him with oodles of humus
There was a bulimic called Shirley,
Who lived in a folly in Purley,
Crept down late one night
Without a hall light
And got mugged by
a large Curly Wurly
A meticulous poet is Motion
Looked deeply at cheap suntan lotion
He rubbed it all in
O’erlooking his chin
Now shaving is fraught with emotion
Grimbeau 