Chronicles of an endgame sour the day,
the last cormorant glides home half-asleep.
mauve tapering headland not faraway
Is darker; the treachery still indiscrete.
I trail past the quiet, dark caravan,
chest pounding with sorrow; tried to walk it
off but it don’t go – a woe-begotten
rotten vixen’s smashed my fragile heart.
On the rise, I make up the chintzy night scene
of Port Ithaca’s tourist hostelries.
Thronging poached Grockles being obscene
Python Lee Jacksons in a broken dream
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.
…that grease-monkey over there,
clad in a voluminous grey migraine of a kaftan,
smells incoming rain, she
watches the rosewood barometer plummet
from minds-eye.
Two cups: dark, bog green and light duck egg blue –
call it grey if you will. Look upon the too pink wall!
A violet pyggy bank, dark pastel blue lagoon.
Dylan: fat sporting unselfconscious Woodbine,
older and hooked now, Larne shed dweller;
‘..in the town of New Haven’… Morrison mugshot postcard;
Milligan Sieg-Heiling traffic Hitler.
Curling at the edges coloured
photocopy of dog-eared Ulysses.
Wailing was the morning
wall of lost projections.
Grimbeau 