Coldfinger
Brinicle Times,
cynical, clinical
inimical times.
Winter fingers the bed
killing mites
most nights.
What am I for?
To breed
some more…
Grimbeau
Scroodles
Tag: writing
January 9, 2015
Pishogue
Cyril Sloth ate all
through the tempest
spanking the panes,
whipping the shrubs,
wiping the eyes of
Sussex and Cypress
January 9, 2015
Buenoventura Durrutti
Teal unreal
on that charred
Hard clay night.
Thinks: worms lap
sun-drenched blood
On midday grass
No buttercups grow there.
True iguana weather: no cicadas.
Another good skin shed.
January 9, 2015
Cuban Heels
The mist lifts, revealing droopy,
vernal, Amazonian gloop.
Parallax, do my eyes sin?
In the clearing, by the wheelie- bin
The sure sign of alien matter
on the ground,
Gin Pink, silver-bowed, twenty some.
Beside these espadrilles, wellies, moccasins,
Clogs, Hush Puppies, Wellingtons…
Meaningful action of a sort,
concrete intent shown
But no feet in sight to date,
A gradual escalation,
Built on compromise,
a virtuous circle of footwear
Like a fairy ring,
a presence in the region.
Something’s afoot
Nearing completion
After the socks,
come the feet and arms.
January 9, 2015
Port Said
In place of dreams:
Streams.
Steam Packet
Steams
Big white
SS Hooper
Smiles
Mallards dive South
In Autumn
Turin shrouded
hemp sack fog
vanished
Will there be Candles?
Yes or No –
Combustion
January 9, 2015
Laundry
Good, that stopped the table wobbling!
Went out for a quiet garden moment,
just as I was warming in the soft sun
of early autumn, the army commenced
lawnmower war next door. Disappointed my
plans were scuppered, but undeterred to gain
nothing from my venture, I fetched the washing
from the line and back indoors, though failing
to spur the idle into action, I
consoled myself with the thought of green socks.
January 8, 2015
Phlogiston
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.
December 24, 2014
Metempsychosis
The temptation to waffle about memories is maple syrup,
something about marked cards, that sort of gooey stuff.
& The very thought of getting into that is just plain
toxic.
Not that I am denying it,
you understand
I just don’t want
to go through all of that.
here and now is where it’s never at.
So, here it is.
Plaintive baroque trumpet sighs
Fanfare, mazurka, and microwave tympani.
Brief running tap crescendo. Mug clunk, bottle top slide.
Faraway, out of sight, a libation is incubating.
The soft clock needs a pacemaker.
Something black is scraped.
A dog crunches twiglets.
the spray distorted blowing of a nose.
A strong clunk of mug.
An awakening.
Something ominous issues from the brass section.
The clock temporarily revives.
An unclear, disembodied voice rings
& reads out an address and claims
that now we have Tchaikovsky for company…
Coughs from above.
An ailing whaling gull?
Creation elation eschews
a humming loo,
Five short bursts enough
precision bombing.
Second wave,
chalk comes up.
The ball was in, man!
December 23, 2014
Dudlines
Dobedobedo…monster of deception,
keeper of the tricks, yield to my oeuvre.
Eggs and interruption beckon,
Douched ruched taffeta kneepads;
the end is listless, granite dust dry sponges,
hard as cold toast, brieze block lites whey
like cranberries in wensleydale – yuk!
Auto-dramaturgy allergy attack.
DNP (for it is):
Quickly! The screeds are coming for dinner!
Grimbeau 