Well, that told it how it was, put plainly.
Food and codeine taken; heavy, post-op
medicated eyes loll there in your head.
Soon the sun and you break through and shine,
Or so the forecast has it. Never give up
on a good forecast, as, one day, it might
give up on you. None of us want that, do us?,
…that grease-monkey over there,
clad in a voluminous grey migraine of a kaftan,
smells incoming rain, she
watches the rosewood barometer plummet
from minds-eye.
Two cups: dark, bog green and light duck egg blue –
call it grey if you will. Look upon the too pink wall!
A violet pyggy bank, dark pastel blue lagoon.
Dylan: fat sporting unselfconscious Woodbine,
older and hooked now, Larne shed dweller;
‘..in the town of New Haven’… Morrison mugshot postcard;
Milligan Sieg-Heiling traffic Hitler.
Curling at the edges coloured
photocopy of dog-eared Ulysses.
Wailing was the morning
wall of lost projections.
Idling around upstairs:
the crows nest on a dead
lead soft afternoon.
Was that our gate?
Is the back door locked?
Pscho-burglars,
Killer-flyers,
Mutant neighbours, midweek papers,
possibly a bloody postman!
hello…
hullo…
Helloohh…
stagnant pause (eleven years)…
sighs…(two short, one longer)
footfall on stair…
Shostokovich climaxes…
A throat clears…
Blue flush of toilet…
Phulushhh…
‘What was it?…’
‘When I picked it up it was dead…hisss
I mean dead happened just as I picked it up…
the other one was the paper boy…’
Deeep breathes…
so glad it was just a piddling matter.
Gotterdammerung’s off!
End of the world as they knew it.
All afternoon unquenchable thirst
accompanied by a mind made of puppy fat.
There is energy, it is all over the place;
thin and clumped, dry and soggy, like an ill
-kempt meadow or face.
For, making meadows is
no laughing matter: neither is the end
of the world, no matter when.
I said to Betty:
‘Drop everythingi. Tonight we eat
with Ferlinghetti. I will up you picki
in my Maserati at seven thirty sharpish’.
‘What will we havi, Jimi?
Probabli spaghetti, or, perhaps linguini.’
‘Yummi!’
Cruel and vicious age as ever was
longsuffering lifesufferer.
Do not bullshit one about the deprivations of the posh or chide me
I am unspeakable toothless with bite snap vengeful hard work
my reward three times twenty three this year shite up the snout
maculate deceivers line your nests and fill your boobies with
silica and choux pastry resentful me you betcha runs in the
breed like the wooden leg hip hop clip clop Iggy copped it
again last night a long drawn out affair mizzled puzzled dazzled
daddy sulks longest sulk in history of history and night
disturbing bassoon oboe stormtrooping quadruped
foodless as a mulligatawny owl a moustachioed pistachio
beckoned forward by a blindfold bogyman for mud is thicker
than water go the whole hog and take the plunge…
Showered thoroughly, racket of motors and gardeners ergo
no P&Q – which should be minded at all times. Pills taken
after scotch egg and salad. Sit outside in the din? Coffee & Fag first,
Friday afternoon slope off early. Bone piece on Hacek okay,
Strike Magazine – check it out, maybe subscribe. Need something
softer under my bare arse. Where was I? Coffee and fag.
There are yellowfish
crying out
for a poach.
We approach seven.
It is evening:
drinks on the patio,
freewheeling banter, laughs , and snacks.
Tapas lovingly prepared.
The lugubrious air
memories of summers past.
Dreamtime in a word.
The smoked haddock will stop yelling soon.
Green or black olives, Daphne?
Are they pitted?
By my fair hand.
You are the one, aren’t you…What’s that sound?
Fish snoring.
Tee-hee-hee…
Yesterday plus one
damp smell of seventies
porn mag, black and white,
thick minged,
Titbits or Parade,
lawn and hedge,
put it back where you found it:
a secret.
Stealthy wanks and aloof strops conceal
the pull and then sulky sleep,
complex born.
Delivered by a bald man from Parslow’s
who looked like a parrot,
or that comedian who made a film with a parrot,
lantern jawed, sort of Stanley Holloway,
that time anyway.
We move into different times of Happy Door
writing down the football scores
in a Woolworth red notebook
and very erudite
but for the greasy skin and hair
and the Bri-nylon shirt:
withered upturned orange collar,
second hand jacket that was always too big:
still is.
Pink salmon trousers for smart
made me look and feel like a dork,
perhaps I was!
Do not let on or you’ve had it,
there will be retribution and bullying
far worse than ever known in the history of me.
Join gangs,
walk hard and hide
clever bully,
ideas man,
dirty rec,
silly temptress with Goldie locks,
the smell of sweet wee-wee.
Bowled him!
Over
Tarmac patch water tower
wood stump clearing dip
and two
little double roundabouts,
flat binocular
white nipples
sullied by tyre smear,
skids, and fast
turning people
rushing to the bomb
plant past gypsy site,
through wood and common bends
and twists and dents
to the Falcon’s nest…
Grimbeau 