Grimbeau

Scroodles

Tag: prose poem

January 21, 2015

Wystopia

allihies

 

Mauden – Nite Male Rubba Dub.

Heads up, there – A Riviera!

No Pushy-Pushing Now.

 

Duck the Punches! No pulling mind.

Here comes delight.

Da-da-da-dumdum.

 

Sing a Song of Songs sung Blue.

From Synapse to Prolapse:

A Curt History of Rapture.

 

Psychosyllables care of Dr. Egg;

tosh-tish-tosh;

plinketyppyplonk.

 

Bad reviews, bad previews –

Bumful of bad bananas for the drop.

Plop.

 

Hanging is ungood for the hangee.

Flash-flesh-flush.

Press & Whoosh: all dunned.

 

Mr. Turd says,

‘Now wish your wands!’

Now.

 

Go think yourself as water,

as liquid water under ice,

uninstilled.

 

Like this: churning, filling, spilling, welling,

willing, milling. Flossing.

Morris Flossing.

 

Big chews and tobacco spats.

A la mode:  Discommode.

The  Carps Barp.

 

Leave a comment
January 8, 2015

Phlogiston

tumblr_n9qg14iurG1riq78fo1_500

 

1

Sun inside, sun outside, hens free.

It’s quarter to three: to my right is a hyacinth blue hyacinth,

elsewhere a dove coos.

Why no workies?

Smirkies, shirkies, quirkies…

Focal plane down the drain.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

 

2

Woke on the water, choir in the sky.

Lost habit, out of the swing.

Naked apeshit visit.

Longers.

 

 

Two two two will not do: simply nots.

Time not spent at it.

 

…

 

 

Pomes and yarns roam and darn days, nights, hours and showers: eats, drinks, & sleeps. That’s the trick, Mick.

 

Here’s a right one.

Duck!

Crystal was shattered. Ratty Vanfrau was at the ablates again. Queer going altogether. Formegandros was a right old wrench to leave. Never spurn a taverna. Still tempers fugit…

            `His head’s gone.` observed the rookie.

            ‘Tis the time of year for it.’ said the chainsaw massacre cast.

            ‘Not that bloody rubbish again.’ Cried the crowd, aloud.

            Castlemaine was a horny bitch for King & Gentry alike. Insatiable in cerise tights, pacing the Home Office, looking frantic for a booster.

            ‘She cooked your goose, Sir.’ Said the minion, Vince, up for a good twatting.

            ‘As waltzers go sir, she’s a dodgem.’ Castlemaine stomped.

 

 

1 Comment