Grimbeau

Scroodles

Tag: return voyage

Opening Contraband to Steam Radio

Icky

scatty playful stuff

re-upholstered  Chesterfield

smell of damp camphor

we gathered round to listen

to desert island dusk’s waves

When Laestrygonians Attack!

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Save that, Patroclus!

It’s

Midday plus

five.

Hazy Sunday afternoon.

Luncheon?

Fishcakes & ptarmigan droppings.

Not again,

Pen

 

What happened to the marmoset wellington?

The Ogres, I suppose.

Eyes bigger than their stomachs, those lads.

Gluttons with mutton.

Ask Old Shep.

Waters Took

264676

Moodpainter…

Stitched up

like a kipper.

Slow train fuming.

Touch light blue paper.

Electric smoke smell.

Flicker.

Glimpse candle

spunk in shade.

Dragonfly and scallion:

Pork medallion.

Bang.

Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang. Is that you?

No.

Knobsides?

Not got any.

Stuck then.

Coalholed in one.

Albatross

humming like a hawser

In a fall squall

Haydreaming

forests

 

Drowning in the noises of black sea beach,

Ruby boyhood daydream in the winter hall,

transported from dull to duller :

a February vacation.

 

Call them Martin and Matilda, twins with

no redeeming features, seven years,

staring out the tiny attic window

as the rain came down in bullet lines.

 

They peeped from the corrugated hay barn

across the weeded concrete.

 

In that black plastic was a mushroom of horsefeed,

ready to be given out.

 

They shared secret oilcake to settle the rumbling bellies,

gothic caverns, avenues blood lit and sumptuous.

I cut my nails and parts of me appear

to touch as if it were the first time.

 

They touch warm scuffed chromium, solid and secure.

A distant puck of patter,

and the churning buttermilk of linen stir and lapse,

contained by the shadow of the buttercup.

 

Prandial Snooze

woman-holding-mirror-on-grass-reflection

 

Our Zero is back.

Huzzah, huzzah…

 

Back triumphantly from Nodl,

festooned with laurels,

plaudits,

smelling of spring fresh mint and lavender thongs.

– Have a cigar!

– Thunk yew muchly…

 

Don’t tow:

Shell.

Wish like new comer: wash like an old comer

…say lurvee, say lurgair.

Life’s so unfair.

Weeps lots.

 

 

Drugstime;

coffee two.

Get down, hep kat!

Pickled pumpkin head in a Pipkin!

Whatever will they think of nexty next…

jugged hair, lungs tongues in arsenic, potted wimp?

 

 

Tarsus

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

Asleep

Snivelling Little Creep

awesome_photos_collected_from_history_13

Waiting on pork sausage

We were forced to skelt

willy-nilly

for mute sanctuary from

tampons confounded take on fern hill.

 

Tea was derationed today in fifty two.

 

Five eggs variously

boiled Mohr’s scale by Nanny Charperson.

 

Is it safe?

Can we come out?

Chai or Cha, your High Chairness?

 

We emerge and return

Waiting for pork sausage

Green and dying in our chains

Ding-a-Ling.

 

 

Candid Chimera

Indian Tepee, Kenora, Ontario.

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.

 

Biscay

Fuzzer

A cooling breeze
up here
on the dark side
of the sun:
bins rumble
sleepily,
need a feed,
or do I?

Dander up,
Dumbo down…
float like a
gutter fly,
sing like a flea.

Get shorter!
Elmore shores
in the mean
streets of heaven,
mixing it
with the Inquisition:
‘Who hid the Remington?’
‘Peter the Punter.’

Eyes dry
savages muzzled
in dense desert
whirlpool,
vortex,
abyss,
bliss.

Terse nerval Ermintruder
Grunts and moves on.
Rambling yak cheviot.
Hear that harp!
Whisking up
A maelstrom

Road to Tad

English: Water tower at Piltown This water tow...

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…

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