Rashers for rascals Passion:
I-Plays the sound track,
a bit happy clappy,
Nevermind,
Just
Oldtime
Tradition.
No such thing
Today in Oxford,
Generating widespread Consternation,
the Contemporary Council
thought it for
An Erotic Installation.
Where are you today?
Ungrouded? Querulous?
Bulbous? Awake?
Perhaps a wit worried
after a think.
Or an atom anxious, a bit bothered,
a chunk confounded, dripping doubt, after an epoch expectant,
a forest fearful, a gallows guarded, a hog horrified, and iota indignant.
A jumping jack:
Krakatoan. A lot lost. Amassing misery,
a noggin narked, often overlooked, permanently pouting.
Querulous I said already.
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.
The fruit of my labour
so far today
Sits over in a
Modest plastic bag
Amidst other items,
It is well
out-of-the-way,
conveniently
located.
‘Shifting Metaphor’ the bag reads,
inscribed
in very gooseberry green above
The
Iconic bitten fruit (an apple?).
A wasp draft flicks it,
it tumbles giddily and
comes to rest
On a too full
smudged yellow
pedal bin,
I explode
My fruits are strewn
all
over the scintillating,
brick-red non-slip
Linoleum.
Howling now
I watch them perish,
wither and vanish,
delight
full tiny
Twinkles
Marasmus done
the voided quasars
dance quick,
nimble polkas to dash
the conic lampshade
So,
like Orgones
and
reason do –
We Sleep
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.
Saturday night becomes a spectre:
A
Dance of the Dead.
Stricken Done Prancing.
Headlines without deadlines.
Bleeding is bad for the sole.
Haemo-Goblin hobbling.
Hopalong Prosody.
Hogwards
Today
Choppers dominate the news:
one fell on a Glasgow pub,
the others on Lee Rigby,
a squaddie who might have been
going to or coming from a pint.
He was in London in day light,
the Glasgow chopper fell on Friday night
Bards often write verses
For others in hearses
_
Wonky-wheeled about with caution,
discovered prone Bloom, covered in
lampblack, penitently licking up,
almost lapping up, ancient grease
beneath my fridge. Toilet next,
then repatriation to the Lazar
Zones of Bongo-Bongo Land.
Abjection is the will of kippers…
must try harder next time, if…
Last Night of…
extreme dreams,
stark monochrome fluid,
freeway floral wallpaper,
rotting damasks, shillelagh,
almonds and formaldehyde.
White light, white sheet.
Jammin’ Jerusalem
Jute wailing bunnies.
Then,
exhausted from the lie-in:
cobalt clear still sky
flossed with high flying drifts,
orchestras of demi-gods trail
home spent.
We scavenge the tepee for beans,
celebrate love apples with libations of strong coffee,
and weep and fear for the band snakes,
Asian gators, and tigers on the fridge, hiding behind
the fabric conditioner, still ready to pounce on sleepy
Moorhen’s eggs.
Your runnin’ and
your runnin’ and
your runnin’ away
from yourself.
Grimbeau 