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…
A blind, dead driver
in front
slows and
indicates all options
before a left at the lights opposite
a set sun of cheap stuff
and loss leaders
that call the believers
and sinners to shop.
Protozoans and zoans; krypton tripped on
A fat, docile cat.
Splat!
A commotion ensued:
fur, screech, ouch, run…
boxed in
in the garden
permanently dormant.
Cist! My arse
Tells a tale
Of
Punishment.
I am arrived at the mausoleum.
Linoleum cool marbled purple floor
Helpfully reflecting afternoon sun.
A resurrected garden through the door
Seems closer as shadow lengthens distance.
No matter; we continue our approach.
Outside is, as always, not what it seemed,
As usual old habits and patterns
Recur: lassitude and wreckfullness soon
Assume the crown: spongeful someday slatterns
Vying for positions of insignificance
Beneath a tree, by the spuds and garden fence.
Lamb berg ahoy!
Thar she bastes!
Sliver me ginger!
Source the mint!
Pinball and Dickens, it will rain soon: the window will be shut.
Our hero is unwashable.
His father done bad investments.
Cold uncle with the sneery clerk do not help.
What is worse is that is he must go
faraway from this familiar terror
work for Squeers and dwell in his world.
Back in London the dirty oiks cheered him
on his way and gave him a letter.
he did not read it, forgot it.
We worry about him.
He drops the letter, retrieves it from the carriage floor
and reads:
‘…you can come at night. My spilling has gone with my wallies. Pops.’
A slow heavy fast night of clammy claw
CS Lewis wakes up the coffee hour
Good banks for the rich: bad banks for the poor.
Loose head props a sea of waxy flowers
Lolling on the blue, crucible altar;
Swimming the foamback Bosphorous caprice
Carpetted riviera road floor.
Catch the earlybird bullet to Nice!
Consideration: transportation is
Unavailable at this holy hour
Also calculate the lonely crowds of rose
That spend so much time wallflowering
Patiently awaiting a tender pruning.
Thursday, 06 June 2013
1:06 PM
‘…a morning of many tempos – pleasant sunshine and a graceful arrival in the crowsnest, a contemplative shower; yet, the insistent repetition of the alarm clock was a portent. On arriving downstairs, I have to confront, singlehandedly, a defiant and barren hen about to ravish the spinach. Staged mayhem results in a cleaning frenzy of the clutter below and the retreat of Sloth in a Huff to her coop after having to do something…’
Popeye spent the rest of the morning ambulating on the zimmer between house and garden: stretching parchment legs, listening to Beethoven, smoking tabs, avoiding dogshit, avoiding humanshit, relaying coffee cups…result: relaxed exhaustion and sunny alienation in the atmosphere of poisoned, silent dispinachment…
Wormwood wore a wormward look
purple boots resent at leisure
trudging tough slow groggy mires
Orange sock hat Wormwood wore
On Sundays and bank holidays
she always wore orange socks
Grimbeau 