The giddy minstrel lived on fruit
Flies, moguls, caprice and hunks
Of Cheese and Bread
She did not give a damn about
What
Anybiddy said
Once munching on an oligarch
She tittered and got silly
Convulsed in laughter and bit off
A substantial lump of Willy
Where’s
a place for us?
There’s
no place for us,
Nowhere
no place for us.
Take my hand
Sit and stare
Take my hand
Share your fear
We’ll find
a new way of dying
We’ll find
a new way of crying
No time,
No hope
No rhyme.
The deep, odd, shock of it hit me in the sun
On the shed path, marooned on a concrete crack
Freed up took in the scene, shocked, turned;
Trundled, older, balder, back up the ramp
Freewheeled, calmer, silent, down the ramp
Came to rest beside the stable table,
Tossed my hair (singular) in the blue breeze
And wiped the puss from Barney’s weeping souls.
The moo-cows are gone home to roast
No more mutinous idiots barge in
Decide to play this game of life to win
Talk is Buses:
Pubic transport
Greenline fine?
Not grotesque
But Divine
No more routinely ruptured mornings –
Quite a happy prospect!
‘…Nora seemed dead on leaving.’
Meaning Wot?
Everyone is blessed: half-dressed.
Trussed and preyed on that one for another day.
Tricateurs with Secateurs;
Kiss my anus, Janus;
Facebook guttersnipes,
fishwives swimming in shirk infested waters.
We do not do blood.
Whoops!
A post
Apocalypse
Calypso
Over in the corner you make out a stranger,
you make out a stranger across a musty room,
and suddenly you know,
you know even then,
he needs a wheel and a chair, and a pen…
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.
All the trees
are brown
and the
carpet is grey.
I went
for
a splash
on a summer’s day…
Wasn’t that sick?
Are you aware?
Me lying dead on the ground,
You in mid-air.
Send in the drones.
Didn’t it miss?
How can they prove?
One who keeps tearing around,
One who can’t move.
Where are the drones?
Send in the drones.
Just when I’d stopped opening wars,
Finally knowing the one that I wanted was yours,
Making my entrance again with my nonchalant air,
Sure of my lines,
No one is there.
Don’t you love force?
My call I fear.
I thought that you’d want what I want.
Sorry, my dear.
But where are the drones?
Quick, send in the drones.
Don’t bother, they’re here
Isn’t it sick?
Isn’t it clear,
Losing my timing this late
In my career?
And where are the drones?
There ought to be drones.
Let’s get out of here.
Grimbeau 