Pneumoconiosis

Wholly Wednesday

           Been about, trinklet coffee and ever ready rub with subliminal cospooks, left the chalice hooked on the fence, a calling card, a memento mori. Sun glasses discovered later still on head, ate up the carrot cake. Doggo sustained throughout care call, sat stern still, resignatedly, not sound speaking. Unwell and withdrawn the fishy conclusion. Bless him, not his usual chatty, engaging self. What a difference a day makes. What, what? No God! Sunny day as well. I would have thought…bus strike? Transmigration of the Soul, bit far-fetched, even for him

Searched high and low for the spikenard to appease the whore next door to lend. Simon’s looking a bit flaky of late, but Laz is on the mend. Whore pops in, she did have itafter all, and by way of an apology she washes my tootsies and dries them in her hair all the time babbling some weird incoherent guilt shit.

Si reckons it’s the crystal meth, but for me the jury is out. She’s got some dodgy clients who do all sorts to her. Judas is miffed that I’ve backed out of the roadshow, but I explained, that absence is, sometimes, the highest form of presence. He looked perplexed, distempered.

Ah, what the fuck anyway, you can’t be in two places at once, can you?

 

Fruit & Nut

 

Orpheus in electric chair

press GREEN to hide screen,

press GREEN or (zer)0 to return,

(had to check, forgotten already).

Then you was out trying to be

small on the front lawn,

mulling mindlessly over

which berries are brown,

and contemplating

an eight foot oak with huge leaves

planted by you forty-eight years ago,

when god was a boy

before we fell out over

the vandals who broke your bike.

Yes, a grudge-bearer of sour-grapes,

well hard done by then as now.

It is still too cold to sit out

in t-shirt and shorts

when the clouds pass over.

The blossom gives way

to rampant leaf growth.

Now tell me once & for all

Is a cherry a fucking berry?

Where once Loddon Flowed

A mute voila idly floats through mummery lane, skirts Mssr. Godard’s bungalowed Close and legs it sharpish up Scherzo Muse to seek some sanctuary in Cadogan Square

Well shod at last I saw you sat overlooking Bedlam Hill soused up after an impromptu al fresco tempura and five pints of Timmy Taylor’s amber slurp watching ghosts carousing arm in arm down car free byways—in short a rambling drive in an old jalopy from Sherfield-on-Loddon to Mortimer USA via the back roads of moist excavated Silchester. An outing for to pick up your first new shoes since the collapse.

Unpacked a few more blurred silhouettes from a rustic bus shelter while opposite pale fires made smoke rise in tied cottage gardens. From the jalopy window you watched a mother hen lead her masked brood over railtracks keenly aware of candy crush laxity and menacing child molesters lurking in high viz jackets beyond the withered heathland gorse littering the dogmess

The Four Horseshoes, the Pants & Dorset line, stinging many with Ring of Bright Porter, Old Hollow leg the drunken sailor is no more. The long gone Pulpits and Shelleys, the Loddon in teacup flood, the too long hill to Bramley, the gentle thrum of sage power tools, and the sawing of surplus tree limbs—it all comes back to whack me now. Where was Dance’s farm gone? Ah yes. I remember it well. Let me free to fake a tan down on Strawberry Fields.

*

Slow climb back on saddle this time…a big typewriter with a corrupted mail box and a vapeful of hoary quips

*

Day after being written off for bamboo spine and banana back; you know you have been like this for years, sedentary, slumped, idle: Wasting away on the creamed rice of a new day.

*

So what if you upped & ate muesli at the craic of Dorn; heavily abdicated the opiate bowel; covered up in a duvet on a reclining chair to sleep; went of to f-Boss for tiffin and natters after shower & mustard breaths? Ovid gets asise by Barged by para-diddlers; a bowl of health and prunes does not cook the mustard; excited by Reading as ever; bamboo, banana & booster driven; you wrap up warm for the provinces (bring walking stick); you take no pleasure in scribbling of late. Deeps.

*

May BH ends in dire storm; dour Selby wins the pretty coloured ball game; Tulip Fever grips a disappointed nation; one week since the banana and bamboo declaration; a heavy week on the foot wounds; refilled the laudanum and rinsed he bottle like a good little junkie; still as fat as a fat house; psoriasis rampant; old woman fucked in a lavatory; rainbow weather imminent; sharks and dolphins play; ball up in the air; no place for cold pen; stories do not end they just go their separate ways.

You wash your face with a beige stained flannel and know the scowl is your stage of life, the active tail of the writhing monkey is sleepy and lolls limp in you piss stained pants, hope is gone for a Burton. As for that one across the road with her grey net curtains, it won’t be long till her pictures lose their allure. Your toes have turned true blue. Must be the morphine, mind you it has been unseasonably cold for early May. Here we get weather, not climate, he always said, the silly old cunt.

As if this was not enough, they put up more fences the very next day. A matt teal van came with two knuckle-braggers and a crude chainsaw and made short shrift of an empire of green deep roots, erected cheap and nasty panels, and disappeared back into the suburb of the bland from whence they came.

How can one’s creative juices flow in such carnage? Must you resort to Shepherd’s Pie and Mushy Peas? You could not make this up. Could you?

*

Evening fell. Dead hedges across the way stay dead. Watergate streams by downstairs. Either you or this fat belly have to go. The very thought makes you hungry. Reading old blog matter gets you down. After checking the emails you snigger. Old habits die hard. Nearly seven thirty pm. Thursday tomorrow. How to break the chain. Escape the routine rut. Learn to let go well.

*

Thursday afternoon. Posted Persiflage on Mayday Pyx. A kids illustrator liked it. Her face is unfamiliar. Went to the reader and read for the first time in ages. You have been away it said. Some old faces are missing. You are one of them. Collaboration equals Vichy water. You are reticent. We only live once. Exactly. Henry used to say that before the plague.

Endemonium

Oct 19 1873

Got underway with a pill. 

Every day starts with a pill. 

A pill and a pot of coffee.

Then it begins. 

The wide open vistas 

on the Oregon trail 

Reveal an irascible Raoul Walsh

screaming blue murder at an empty horse

As beyond in the redwood canopy 

an eagle soars majestic. 

You could not make it up…

Could you?

Later on sat inside the morning moonlight

Digesting scrumptiosness —

yogurt honey banana grape granola

— confound the Bristol stools chart

There is a trap set down memory lane

Especially designed for rogue elephants

Inclined to silly pop songs

No urine today

No shit to swallow

Just lollop round

Chew cud ponder callow

No way to behave

Snooze on a marshmallow

Aboard the Night Train to St Malo…

*

Cedric Poole, the jejune Marquess of Coole, was found spreadeagled on an Ottoman with ‘Half Life of of  Snails’ dangling in her rigid bloodless grip & posted the footage on Snuff Chat. When he clicked send Henry twigged Edward G was still at large and that only he was capable of such an unspeakable atrocity. After all the drawing room was full up with blistered aubergines and midget broccoli festooned the architraves, It was his trademark calling card. 

A hairless Headcase whimpered in the corner wrapped in a samphire ball gown. Edward G was just a pushy upstart from Central casting in his doggy dreams; the one they always let through, the dead loss leader, the hollow idol hired to kill off with strychnine on a wet afternoon in act two when the uranium chew sticks  ran out at the wrong time

Feeling the after thrill of eating chocolate in the dark and feeling a little moist afterwards. 

It was all off piste, a huge charade. The long positions still held firm, maintained by cupidity and smarm, he thought of Peregrine out at sea huntin marlin to enchant that snitch Veronica. Nailed up and bleeding effluent from every orifice he  too was lost, hooked, lined and blinkered by her iridescent gums. 

Henry understood too well how lesser narwhals would fold under such pressure and morph into slum beauticians sweeping up lippings delapidated nail bars. But this was never Cedric’s script. He always sought delineation. For him things were simply matters to order and control. Edward G had framed him up big time. With that in mind Henry set off for the Croatian bakery harbouring no illusions.

Cool shrooms and anchovy bisque, homespun alphabetti spaghetti:sounds rendered illegible; fungal magic soused in funny honey. Cheryl really had pushed the boat out this time. Always too keen to please. After all she was a still born nutritionist: worst acne I ever saw on a dame. She wore a homespun hood with slits to breathe in and see out. Takes all sorts suppose. They call her Elephant Woman at the zoo. But never to her face you understand. Well I mean how can you?  It would be unseemly.inappropriate

Some farewell letter you’d agree. 

Henry was  agog. Edward G had legged it for good this time.  All hell broke loose in the utility room. The kittens went bananas at the sight of the giant mouse. Henry took a powder. A smell of camphor burning. Whose stockinged feet are poking out this time? Colonel fucking Sanders?

Smell him all over. A tune wafted in on the turbid air… 

We threw it all away some say

(mirthless prissy lips make snide asides one day)…

Buddies burst in occasionally 

Sometimes from outer space       

like oriental chainsaws   

smelling of mellow peril: 

Peril with a Capital P that is

silver trembles emerald leaf       

splits sky wide open

flaked out in gauze tropospheres                   

sedation

sifting though space junk plunder in the sparse first light           

rooftop silhouette

opposite is a chocolate rhombus       

a pollarded alp sprouts crumbly chimney stumps

a decapitated toblerone

topped off by a                        

crowned nurdle crest 

rigid khaki stook 

bladderwrack moonbeam 

wrack stacks wobble       

precariously perched betop           

Its burden cast away

crumbledown mountain 

Perambleside peaks    

***

Under which    the    above

little fat boy wants outies           

Cader Idris sizzles

protesting the right foot forward               

scree flurries lapping

to reek havoc & rage & rumpus       

prospect of an avalanche blomange

confined to poxy screenplay drosswork       

deemed unfit for family fun

cross legged zapping seagulls with a crossbow       

winging be hard blackbirds 

Drives off  broke folks  hopping mad

grinding anthracite briquettes           

demanding coal shed 

solitary refinement 

converting chunks to coke 

hatching audacious escape plans 

Prompts a sudden  urge to defecate       

running out of quiet corners

Prithee due silence compromised by windsock   

Paradiddle drip on porchway 

overflowing gutters piss       

Twas an ardent dew fell overnight: 

Harley Hill rests in peace

The square  Emerge

*  

That sat around— 

O  o  o for ages

Eons myriads yonks light years and then some

Stiff Opposition confronts Cowardly Illusions in Lyre

Freak truck crash passes by without comment—bleak voice of a bloody island wanes to pale fire; open up cliffs or craggy arms for poltroons; cartoon sequence starts, sequined turquoise bathroom reduces us to mere insanity; fell out of the bath and lay wedged under the washing machine for fucking years; grew fat on silverfish and seagull droppings.  

Issued up a plume of green steam and vanished like a rainbow; a friend of mine once lived with no electricity or water in a sinking house and got eaten by the angry hedgerow. From time to time. here and there is born a Saint Theresa, a foundress of nothing in particular, whose loving heart-beats and sobs after an unattained goodness tremble off and are dispersed among hindrances, instead of centring in some long-recognizable deed 

Nellie Cotter from Cork reads the view as she sees it from the perspective of a pine marten licking virginal vanilla:’… this should in no way be taken as a sleight on the veracity of the writer’s intent; however, the content of an abject  dustbin soul ought not be thrown to the four winds of Mitchelstown with such gay abandon. Imagine the possible effect on the imaginary horse trades…’ dribbled a chandler on his way to a Mussels feed in Listowel. 

Steggy Potlatch Incursion

O Sun that rose in the eastern corner of Earth,
Looking as though you came from under the ground,
When you crossed the sky and entered the deep sea,
Where did you stable your six dragon-steeds?[17]
Now and of old your journeys have never ceased:
Strong were that man’s limbs
Who could run beside you on your travels to and fro.

The torching of Captain St Tom Moore took place recently behind closed doors at a Pizza Hut in Bangalore.

Fair-weather fiends and black-eyed old beans braved the plaintive screams to witness an impromptu fly past by NHS enabled US SWAT teams.

The ashes will be scattered on rugged hunks of mesolithic garlic bread.

‘We will never see its like again. Someone broke the mould.’ Said a mould breaker from Botchley who declined all knowledge.

A Home Office spooksave distanced the department by removing all salient papers to a safe house in Pontefract.

Mister Bywaters is Fifty-Two and leaves twelve children of various hues.

The Palace remained aloof and rang out for bubbly, farls and a crucifix.

‘We shall leave no tern unstoned.’ Avowed a notorious, deceased colonial wag from sunlit fields of asphodel, brandishing a makeshift catapult to prove intent. Mr Nash would have been one hundred and seventy-nine someday.

‘Shiver me timbers!’ Begged a sanguine hull basking in hot water.

A Queen Bee was released from captivity from a geranium forest at eight-fifty Greenwich Standard Time.

Pale Fires

‘La Sonnambula’ dominated the dissonant part of town. Willie Gumbo, its cherubic proprietor, stood proud at the art deco entrance swinging his platinum fob when the sedan passed stealthily by. Feds or hoods, it mattered not to him. He gave them what they wanted, a wave, and took no sides, caring only for the good times. And what times they were. Enchantresses and virtuosos flocked to ‘La Sonnambula’ to confront their insignificance.

—Rodden! Rodden! She wailed
The cherry tree swayed. Blossoms shivered, grasses sighed, chuckles rippled from stained glass lit balconies, yet no sign of Rodden.
—Matilda, get over it, called The Bish hazily.
Tears welled, fear swelled, pain felt sharp

As silent intravenous wasps . Matilda drained the moonlit night for interstellar respite, re-joined the conclave, limbless, wuthered, keened.
Two fists of pastry, proved and ready for rolling, stood on the floured board, the fish were gutted and tap washed, the onions and capers piled slickly & finely chopped, the butter sliced in handy slabs. There was plenty. A veritable cornucopia.

The Echo of Calendula

Sparse midwinter yields up a gruesome primrose: an arid pansy; clinging on tight to the sacred hogweed minaret a bony man ascends the granite stairwell of dim cacophony. Outside a stray pelican swallows suburbia in one pornographic gulp while on the boxwood landing curlew chicks torment the ballooning gizzards of scoffing drogues as water off a duck’s back whistles soft conducive tempos once heard being carried on a gurney…
~

Killed off a lot of half hours over time waiting for clues to pressing questions and moved off in the end replete eschewing brittle time zones transfixed by agitated taunts and barbs letting screwloose canons and silly wizards gawp

Reader I posted the above oilier than now when love of pressed pimento offal passed as gorgeous Juul passed into rank reeking infection and shiny flashback delirium; things felt fell apart, time passed out, drink got drank, eats got ate; now sixty – one years , behold a shaman looking for sparks and gizmos to repair giving way to senile flatulence

Worldwatch shook me up at four with a tingle; curt pips sound alarum these days–take your heart pills or you will expire before you unleash the morning dump, empty out the morning dog and warm last night’s morning coffee up in the vintage gadget. Think little of scribbles these days; seems medication has worked.

Yes Emile I am cured of hope at last! Was not the Divine Comedy in truth about writer’s block? Or were there other factors at play. Pause for thought takes a moment to up the monotony of the invalid aside. With gusto I wrote myself off over time is the nub of it. Now, guess what i’m at it again, pissing in the wind watching drunks drink themselves sober.

Out exploring trouble’s way. Conditioned to hyacinth house arrest and mainstream misdirection, savage cuts house trained more than I, and of flagrant lies be sure there is only more to follow

As ever it takes a word or two and before you know it you are away with the faeries
Not for profit or for gain reads the feebly etched legend underneath. Ambition free zones abound, here live the crushed who were never once ornamental or useful about the holies of the doshspouts and saintmakers.
Around the world on a grain of sand repelled by dark stuff and intriguing savoury vittles procured on tick from Ron Squiffy’s Squiffy Ifffies and Strudel Oodles a’Plenty.

*

Memory mistook and found forgiving in a jiff every
blow that laid you low forcing off proud protests of ridicule and chainsaw then snap all done and you left dusty legs akimbo in your anger and your shame so what resentment saps

Snazzy wheelbrace got grips like giant milktooths as dew adorns blue pillow in lime zest, What’s so wrong with that I’d like to know how the imbecilic furs stopped flying ducks? Everyday streetscene available at a memory kiosk near you. Punchy bookies runner minesweeping fleshpots trips on kipper doing good turns for oafish denizens up on their high stools supping bass and whisky chasseuse when their ship comes up.

~
Long Room appended by the wincey stench jakes contained the wall of which I once scribbled ‘Tranmere Rovers is All that is the case’: Otto Bismuth Valmont Topaz Banquo Fripp von Quim…jazz and uranium aged blue serge three pieslice suit plus four crimplene plus twos making eight maroon moustaches draw gaze to flattened snail quiff wax model chess hustler and trenchfoot fetishist hops from Clapham to Northamptonshire (overtired little punk rocker nibbles a soggy rusk for succour…)

*

Vital empty document
Left idling by an open file
Wonder what is contained in that mind
she pondered
Sparking up
log fire embers with a breadstick

“The word cunt was created by Norwegians
The highly esteemed OED
wouldn’t have it in its pages
and even today
the dictionary describes it as
the most taboo word
in English.
Norsemen said kunta and the
Danes said kunte, as did ninth-century
Germans, though not, seemingly,
in anger or spite.
Apparently, the first known use of the word in
English was in 1230, when an
Oxford street was named Gropecunt Lane
And still is according to Doreen Lipstick.”

Braindead by two thirty,
too cold out there
for enfeebled wimps like i
….hte Laxy fox jumps over bcq gonk…y a w n…

Yesterday’s salad defrosts on the south facing sidewalk,
Accompanied by a four day old
stilton broccoli cheesecake, half baked buttered tatty
Suspicious cadaver guava gut, fried lightly in walnut oil,
done to a turn, one of the fried eggs got off less lightly, suffering a slightly frazzled underside.

If you’re drifting on an empty ocean get off…
rememememememember
Chucking stuff all over the place, scatterbrained
& against all odds Balach Lava Banana
pulls one off’–a coup d’etat, ca va!

Viva Chapati!
On themselves they brought it, plague
espedrilled chameleons
Raven haired chimeraphiles
Slumming it on the Mile End Rd
Vague as aesthetics in sunflower oil
‘Do you knit your own flatbread, Senora?’
‘Are you havin a laugh, Duck?’
Her hair was made of liquorice
Topped of with a Pontefract Cake

They troped the light fantastic
Heard nightingales in Berkeley Square
Admired eachother’s body terms
And parted on overly familiar terms
That scared the horses
& put off the pigeons
From a grim repast

Who said what to whom?
Who dared to utter?
Who cared to ?

Once chaste all over now big in Asia Minor
unstable dandelions, gentler heather, mildew oak,

I let it all out from tome to tome

Downhill skiing avalanche
Search parties endeavour to rescue the zeitgeist
Night and day
All to no avail
Vanished without trace it seems
Under moonlit snow
Obliterated themes

A night to remember
Once all but forgotten
Washed out
Bywater lapping
Under the mulberry bridge
Echoes sound acute

All to be read on a slow barque
to the ludicrous growl
of a jocund bassoon

A walky talky blues
Treading gingerly hiss hush-hush
Tenderfoot cracks twigs

Harpsichord trombones erupt

In raucous laughter
Belly up

Getting seldom
Random flops of fancy
limp necromancy

Imagine bawdy Uncle Silenus
Borne in by nymphs and satyrs
Ready for the orgiastic
saturnalia

Empurpled rites of passage
‘Shall we split up now
Now all the kids are fed up? ’
Why the diddly squat not
You only live once these days

Dredge us up the silted past
finger filtered fine sludge oozes
From eyelets of dirty little boots

Getting used to that twenty twenty thing now we go double digit days; waiting for my nun to land; cheeky bugger got no snout; string invisible
supports frolicsome squirrel me silver in the morning sun (some sight for sore eyes); blurred fuxx of nascent canopy; little green shirts and
bold phospherescent jobbies litter no man’s land; Stormont doors need three in one; yankee princess legs it to Canada with her little boy (out of harms way from fornicating uncles). End of abbreviated morning shift made wondrous by spring burst finish.

Saturday morning fantasy: Wind blows like a stammer, wrinkles the drapes, dissipates. to be replaced by pastel blue and pink graffiti phantoms spread over thinned out chestnut woods. Stormy nights permit a sunny springburst evenso wrecked we are still null and void, though perambulant, dumbfounded banjaxed bolloxed blank. Days obstruct days; freeways flooded flooding more, the monsoon season will soon claim us, and we will watch our webbed feet sprout on bollards and like
taboo cartoons roam the streets in charming gangs offering to prep your goose

These draughts disguise ill winds that blow at crunchtimes and lunchtimes. at the going down of the nun. and in the yawning we will forget them…

Yes, then and only then when snooze gives way to oceanic sleep, infinite and clement
slow to rise and fall, intimate, giving and alive, and to please the mate you must relate, once said a
hoaxer made of cheesecloth and sideburns

*
Snooker and darts, dodgy reception, high winds in Jamaica, baked beans and mice, three brandy mince pies
run off the excess, sink runneth over, half life of toxins, aromas released, beobabs slim. Catulus pooh poohed by genteel
Patricians, Mozart complicit, bodily functions, crap for the masses, reveal the masked singer– Julius Geezer.
When Plutocrats roamed the earth, top of the termite hill, above the stole fire, top of the world ma, Cody Fanned Tootsi
Three minute heroes improving sales of inedible merchandise, memento moris, chocolate cellphones for the rugrats of Memphis
pinko peppa spray pigs, ravaging the larder, plagues of ingratitude offset by hush-hush money, who is the unicorn of the week
Roland Barthes. Guy Debord, John the Boptist, Duckus Daffus…Boeing, Boeing, Going, Gone. Post human error
Explore the nightmare in your teams, then saunter off well entertained to your pit. Such is life, earlier watched a kite perform
wild acrobatics on a passing gale, the catching it and banking at great speed, cadging a free ride east to the eternal smoke.
someone pots a ball downstairs and the audience combusts, a mass spontaneous infarction at a modest sporting event
an act of war against the snooker loving Chinese, anathema to poolhall baddies, everywhere you look is strife and rubble.
At least we had the kite and mince pies, Talulah

a Robinson Maguire dire afternoon as the wet sets on for the season; talk is of blueberries and avocados over a plate of sell by
gluten oatcakes reduced from outrageous to ridiculous prices by your brother down the co-op. Get what you can and be grateful
foreign vassal sailing under the Liberian flag of neutrality; getting on top of the problem…

The ups and downs of a chesshead! Fuelled on green tea and honey Morphied up and plunged into a tub of stilletoes and
replayed the middling game of Capablanca before he pulled the plug, the shoes drained away leaving no mark and Morphy
got out, adjusted his cummerband and rejoined the seething throng.

each word pure gemstone, cherish & polish, place in a tableau vivant and see what happens next. Posture and balance win out.
Time for the gymnasium down fourth street, flirting with the come hither buffalo

Barred from dreams for blaspheming, went back, got turned away, woke up. Three weeks since Xmas Eve, two weeks since Sylvester
dark, cold, wet and bleak; listened to an account of rowing to the Antarctic in search of stegasourus oil, Lord Adonis shops at oftentimes at Primark;
now that has cheered me up

Tombstones by moonlight shade out legend obscured by elephants
Up since just gone five, toe jip continued on an off all night, trying to keep it moving

A long night’s journey into luncheon sun light, reupholstered toe bears up, stuffed with scrambled eggs and juggled opiates, concretes and abstracts merge, pill withered crackpot seeks self governance leaking profusely. Legs growing longer as we speak

Keep flowing river there’s much rain to drain. Conflict and contrast flash past like pretzels hurled from a greyhound by a mouse
Slug induced roamer babbling incontinence; mindslime better out than in. Peruse given options restricted by predicament conclude
fresh air in the garden a feasible punt, or hang out the window, thighs warmed by the rad, well known surrounding, no sharp flint
restrricted vision born of restricted movement, but when the light falls, alone on the hillside, whipped by wild wind
maddened by pain
A nice comeback wind to blow out the cobwebs of all too familiar hellish night, yet we attain the kiddie heights of 1259 after an abrupt resignation
from the spat; how tombstones were those slabs of yarg that landed overnight–memory mugged me orifice, offficer, wicked ways persist
old hobbits diehard several times, erodable, redoable so ban from sight thus mind; objectionable relations theory, custom, & practice, timewarped by steamclock

infantile games of ideal families going ape on naughty sauce and hormones have been likened to little dogs during DT’s in a dormobile
floating out to sea to hunt the snark…so slept I

Out unyielding mudstick grimmed down by gloop and frigid air!
Stretch ’em & air ’em…Return of the frozen red from grizzly chill with a will to thrill first all and then himself by basking in a job well done glow; Win of the Year! Beat a 1400’er!!
Doc’s shop 3,50 Mon 21 Jan (shoot foot porn); lost a verse to the gusty ether
Friday was the blessed Ruth
Get fit, get slim weekend; write it off, turn fat to stamina, eat the right stuff, renew your wagon vow, shower and cut beard;
all this and much more coming soon to an charcuterie near you; lock up yer snorters theres a hard rain’s blowing on the window;
Zilch on the notions front, bad chess, bad mood, bad foot; back round the houses where the ragged rascal reigned; speak ill of the fed at your peril
and their sumptuous luncheons (hang on a minute, you said you want slim); a little less obfuscation, focus is what we need;
or izzit? Mull over yonder laundromat. World view askew. Here we are and here it is, do you want it? Well…now you sees it now you don’ts
Getting dimmer out the front, what have you on this weekend? Going out! What in this and inappropriately shod to brave such pestilence?
challenges.
Will it be the usual then, milling round alone at home all morning, losing weight thanks to starvation and beheading, putting up with, getting by

~

You could try this–
Open a can of worms for laughs
Sounds too much like hard work
Vanish with our Tracy then
See if I care
Poody…

*
A state of permanent notion is perpetually wearisome, one simply moves on, does more, repeats it drives us nuts, day in day out;
toe strangely suddenly hurts;
Escaped the C4 News and landed here (the alternative was bed, to snooze and suffocate in a fug of stale smokey air).
Preoccupied with outcomes and manoeuvres, over thinking motives, withdrawing from the bullshit to do stuff up
from stale material. Praxis soils the air,

Conversation piece; news item prompted; goggleboxing over flashy light; once stuff happened no its stifled. heard it all before suppose
the last time all hell broke loose and then froze over, shushing gasbags in a prefab igloo, contemplating chocolate and a movie to get
lost in.

Sure reached out for the candle till nose found table’s edge, feel it sat here now. One more fizzy permissable before the curfew
midnight zone, beyond then the rule of thumb and arbitrary spooks act out like daft sad children, misunderstanding all they see,
reaching foregone conclusions arrived at feeling hurt

Thought experiments disperse in the aether, one door closes when another one shuts, the last great age of literature grinds to a drab repose
Foot patched up, covered mish mash of stock unpurloined by scavengers, what’s mine is yours is a risky raison d’etre in these parts…
Darkthoughts detract from winter sun, there is much healing to be done, concentrate on number one whenever the cap fits schmooze it

*
Rapacious, unscrupulous, superficial aloof sat the eagle, feeling a howzat for your question being avoided by the middling sort;
put a sock on it for for now, a grey one denotes respect for all gods of stage and screen. Bogart creams a cracker with precision,
an ostentatious display of being on top of a strawberry birdcage

washed & changed yellowstain notional lark (black & blue outfit); do not mark his fungal face; spoke with F-Bomb gestern abend;
let the ladies goss & blurt (tis lonesome at the tap); Jeeves bereaves the panoply of dishes; let the guts spill out breaking in new strides;
mental flexibility the key to stolid laws enforced by yuppie fleshcreeps and their unspeakable offspring; ranty ranty roo pass the didgery do

Three hours of bleary grudges, gripes and jeremiads, one less pair of trousers for the pile; Sunday afternoon, daffodils emerged as I
ate some toast and cheesecake, and a stray mice pies for afters;
Prepped for Doc, bring supplies, depleted though they are; options for healing, current state stagnation, infection, anti-b’s–
is that all there is? Delightful sunshine, cold as shoulder; it will all be over in two hours (fungus crossed); no fun Sunday with
the Feelbad Sisters. empathizing whingers…praxis makes perfect (other factors at play); feel like dozing off and waking in a
warm ball, should have a falafel and salad to tide me over; and afterwards?
Three days of NHS actions result in a bandaged foor, more anto b’s and blood thinners, anti cals and a vasclat appointment in Bedlam
the day after April Fools Day; back on the chess after three days fire fighting down under; the army wants to fell the oak tree, they claim
it undermining their extension; watery gloom, muddy tracks, winter flotsam and jetsam soils the ranch; Orwell on the wireless, nearing the end;
in abridged series most people pass on Fridays; sisters are doing it to themselves; Chinese epidemic threatens weight loss in the global village;
stay in and keep your mask up; wait on further orders; Barnet slums are falling down, fine pear lady

Orwell really not at all well; emptied the vessel Two good wins back to back, dog shouts in fogscape ignored knee job! Pre med kicking in; impeccable timing, Emerson Green? Industrial Park means no trees just warehouses, Who was Murt? Airing the swamp out. Walking better already. Hard not to wallow and brood. Good time of year for it. Permanent bleak horsey latitudes. Nurses expected…in due course I wince.
The Health of Nations is up for grabs; smoking is a hard nut; tree skip arrives; heavy plant crossing; no answers power mongers; vacuous
articulacy takes biscuit; idea free zones; see no good nowhere (switched off the box; put on winter wool); pause to release breath into the wild;
deepest secret fir appears; the better requires duration to prove change for the good; clearly separate tables are apropos;
Squidgy issue; dreadful chess; tenterhooked by snagthoughts, court out in two minds, queen gift spawns pure gormless…cliched mind needs change andvittles; nowt but one banana and a cold roast spud complement of last even; cleaning up
inside; could lose several kilos, no bad thing. This aint writing its just pressing keys, dress it up however. Waiting always
waiting, human conduit for Nix. Catch the news? Heard it all Bite to eat delayed by slow prep lacking urgency.The art of
fuck all slowly dogs my every step…

This tapping seems irregular, figure it out in time; angry at blowing that, miles to go, get back Loretta, you aint kidding
no one. Ventriloquists and other emissaries who throw voices suffer by the wayside, blue trains never stop round here,
car factory move east to reorienteer, way of the weald suppose we dont’ miss the gantries, left my sandwich box flap up,
where did they all come from, sixty storeys up, could be weird thermals, it aint really down to them, bad choices along
the way, we all need a scapegoat from time to time, the problem is they know that, ay there is the rub damned if you don’t
see that. cherished illusions on a wet Sunday in January, listening to Stan Tracey taking on Dylan Thomas, zillions dead in
China, some things never change

Got some astronaut food on the way, drifting up from below, just add water and, looking forward to it while suspecting
disappointment follows wrong time wrong place as ever, hard wired by experience, no such thing as a, why bother when
you see whst’s coming next, given to too readily giving up the ghost– giving up the ghost of Captain Catfood. Thinking like
an ibex now, mind your step bu the overhang, it can be awful treacherous in this weather

*

Pause: sounds familiar, John Coltrance, only the best will do for me. Highly refined taste buds the average one legged iguana.
See it in their eyes Writing me off in advance. Nice to be proved right. Insecurity in numbers counts for a surfeit of negligence.
Ways of thinking. Social psychology of in groups outed by results. Who controls the means of production? Follow the money
as usual. Half moon rising. Meet me down the cowshe for a cuddle. There’s fuck all on the box but repeatsBig hellos from belows. The food’s all ready, the floor’s being sucked and in flight entertainment is ready to go. Things do happen
eventually.

Kildare Jump

You woke up muttering, ‘Ruby was the jumper found dead on outcrop, she leapt from window, thought I was an intruder, some illegal alien, the late night shopper minus money.’

Kildare High St, dead of night, lumpen throngs teeming, you letting the dog out, garish floppy hats, shirtsleeve weather, prolonged break in clouds, chair in an alley dismantled, narrow dingy alley. Upturned news stand,remember now? Pushy driver, formula one, empty room, furnished lobby, holiday let, commands a view, flat horizon, step outside, high on cedar, always muddled, inconclusive, reverent, incautious, droll.

Hubristic cubists should not wonder, leap of faith, fatal blunder, sods conjoined, torn asunder. Rhyming slang, gentle thunder, door jamb doughnut, head on pillow. Leaping willow. Bruce Lee Brilleaux. Me no shopper, came a cropper. dropped space hopper, missus mopper, belly flopper, billow popper…

Tell our story your way, pulling no punches and when the time comes recite the following verse by Otto Leland Bohanan by ear:

How dreary the winds shriek and whine:
The trembling shadows grow chill.
O soul of my soul, wert thou mine!

O where are the stars that did shine?
The moonlight that tinselled the hill?
How dreary the winds shriek and whine!

Despair ’round my heart doth entwine,
Far soundeth my cry weird and shrill:
O soul of my soul, wert thou mine!

I’ve quaffed to the dregs the mad wine
Of passion, but under my sill
How dreary the winds shriek and whine!

’Tis thine, is the dream so divine,
That doth this vain yearning instill;
O soul of my soul, wert thou mine!

’Tis mine, here to crave and to pine
For what thou wilt never fulfill;
How dreary the winds shriek and whine!
O soul of my soul, wert thou mine!

Plague Ship Chronicle

Our opinions have no permanence; like autumn and winter, they gradually pass away.

Cast off one month ago. Felt myself turning back. Must finish my cheerios. They are used to my brief excursions, so it will take some time for a lot of them to cotton on. Like all good escapes it was at dead of night. A quiet one. Although planned, the opportunity could not be engineered without knowing they would be on Pilgimage that week. With the daily snooper gone, ran off in disgrace. Couldn’t cut the mustard. I have been alone apart from the Dowager. And I can’t get rid of her, coz she part owns the thing.

This is truly the first time I feel underway. All they can be done now just needs to be on the way. There’s no point mithering any more. Soon we will pick up the easterlies and then true sailing is begun.

One just sod fell off the main tonight

A phantom nagover from the weekend insists, growing to persists, forms into pellucid insight: threat. Why did you not get me drunk, kind morning? The combined impact of the whale and an old gunboat is deeper, harder, starker and clearer, more invasive than I had thought. The hackles are up, I feared this. The last scouts, perhaps? Search parties, drones, sea trolls? No Nimrods these days – somehow, I doubt it, but you never know, other things might occupy them the longer I’m unheard.

What do these barnacles cling on so? Nowhere else to be…Live and let live, suppose. Must I wait till Port Crepe for a scrape? They get on my nerves when it gets down to the crunch. Lick off with a splash of spray, bathe on deck, only the fish are listening. Take the morning air. Do not be afraid. Do it soon while everyone’s snuggled down purring and groaning with Miranda. Let realty sleep with equity and the sea dog to doze on. Eight bells. Watch over, one and a half dogs, we crossed that dateline. Set a course south, throw them off the scent and learn more about ropes and knots. Having left territorial waters, want to watch their next move and plan mine. Glad to realise in time, my decks are washed and smelling sweet.

Great! Got the hour back on the bridge changing course southward, I realise. Blown a bit off course, too far eastward by Gonzalo. Tack and cruise, skirt territorial waters; take in the spinnaker, save the fragrant water from the billow for sips and splashes. Heading for safer, familiar waters now, just beyond the edge, viewed their bar not mine.

Ha, ha, ships dog’s gone for a swim with the dolphins, got the Dowager in a right flap. No Boson, too groggy…Mondays tossed at sea!

Look out Ma, No land! Outward bounding sounding fun. Faith once leapt in a dark chart. Trust me, I’m a gaoler. Trust the boat, a whaler. Shiver me timbres, if you must. Anchor me in Angel Dust and I stop dead. Mistreat me and you at your own hands. Freedom is yours outdoors. Sez whose army, smarmy? Smell cloved rind burn, take deep draughts of prestigious Pomander. Auspicious Ambergris, marzipan musk, or contrite civet – know not which smell to hang round red necks. To conceal? Contenders include: Old stale boxers, empty three-ply horses, blacked out prize-fighters, three rings rusted, knocked out cold, thirsty punch trunks. No. Clean out last night by twelve. Socks and slippers, forget me not when I forget thee lots. Drongo alert dysfunction. Tweet, tweet, dive deep Survived the ambush, another sell buy shooting: left gazpacho cold, three kippers out flat, plumb tuckered up, gobbled up with occidental relish. Post war booby boomer: Daphnia, Delia, and Celia skip a light fandango with Stingo Mandingo, leave him manacled, popsickled, humbled: prone to rapine pillagement. Pesky parishioners, villainous villagers, codpiece Carmellites, see how they muddled meddle, august wild hunters pass by got up as trappist hoodlums. Silent but deadly Past Full moon cellar, Rowan hides it well, stern cloud gusts fade to whispers. Hunters swoon with exertion, rest in peace on mauve nasturtiums.

Days drew in, grey, squally, mild, fresh. The dowager, tousled, greasy, and pimento pocked, arrives for a parley. We watch the radio. Sixteen hundred overboard believed to be a record. Plenty sods left on the main to muddy up sprung tides.

Yankees inaugurate a dead mule to appease the harvest goddess. Jogging Joe skips to the loo more frequent than the dancing loon. My pit pony is bigger than yours is buster. Grow country for old men. Missy Langerdale buys it on the Potomac in a new Buick minus tow.

Time to fetch some dialogue in from the mural gloom. Brighten up the dirge now Kristopher kracks rouged cheeks at us. Lazy down in the old log carbine with a vapid repeater churning out dirge in a wet masquerade. Elpenor slips off the roof and the hoggets are decanted in the cubits, soon the grateful dead will show with an effigy of Jerry burning up on re-entry. Best off without thinking says the Evangelist to the Hebrew. That’s when the balloon goes up and the faecal matter encounters the enthusiast.

–Man! Its only Wednesday once again and I ain’t done Jack Shoeshine

–Fret not, my liege, nor has any other chickenshit motherfucker

So came an extract from the mural gloom. The bin men emptied the crates, on this, Recycling Day.

Scroodling Down to Rio

Long time spent looking back on when the bad big left toe was well , how freely we just slipped out for a puff when the lazy guards dropped off, the gentle tonguing of liquorice eyes; seven gone done kipping see quilt effaced by crude; sad how the Labour wrecking Crew draws scorn of media rentiers; a black wooly hat hides patchy tousled ill-kempt locks; sat out for fifteen solid defying blatant barefaced drying wafts, recalling he who stood on the lawn for two long years in little more than a parsec and quilt when…
‘Shut the fuck up Maxim’, the army exploded next door when a gundog goes off in a vastibule while a marksman barks hors d’oeuvres; and there was
There was I minding my own half term spring bank tetchy break up snoozing and sulking, schmoozing the airwaves roundabout brunchtime feeling chipper after risking an impromptu outing to the moon and just how keenly direct sunlight soothes the crooked back through sensitive cotton woolens; imagine noting that the menagerie is running low on cretter comfort vittles and as I carry none about my person dismiss it as a peccadillo; an open purse left prone inside methinks, make an ocular dental note on the way outwill you luv? Look see! A Birdbath water low to arid, its lake isle an impudent woodpigeon stoolpile epicentral ust goes to show the extent stale shortbead affords a sinister challenge for a circumspect of cackling grackles: press select fast forward on quicksilver on scant jade highlights of dewdrop prism bluebells glisten in wild horse meadow about this time of the year in the mystic spring tra-la.
Watch instead crimson tractors sculpt dark chocolate mudflats throwing in a swift neat buff & shine, in awe of elbow greased a thousand pistons crawling at random over no mans land crunching bones and shell case a shambles abandoned to trample on . Count up precious emboldened turds and spread forth largesse to multiply with yon weathered yardbrush…people without the know speak gassy corpse mouthed cliche & boffin jargon; proffer we no more than mere staples for the birds to frown and humbug on; getting here slowly but by but; one phase drags on nigh on forever — red books, green books, blue books, jumpy weavers work from home; using up all the words in the program including arabic symbols and synaptic gaps; a random rustic mudsling meant to do good for head, improves the pecks and posture in order to reboot and
Launch ‘Cybernautica’ on a supersensitive public via a supersticious publican to forced peruse at enforced leisure to thumb through Dante & Vaneigen for subversive sugar kicks; twenty to five and so am I banished, famished or vanished, mein hairdo?
Should we bathe our feet or bury the dead? Why not first repoint the house with marzipan & sprinkle afterwards in waywardwotsit twinkling debris? Settle you down nice for the night of a hundred thousand stars. See how Ariel was glad he had kept his nebulous poems well out of sight.
Forgotten filleted fragments of a recumbent monkey wrenched out kicking and screaming to demand release from further agonised imaginings sustained by grief fetishism and pain habit left hanging round waiting to be strafed and milled by anxious yearnings (yawn less often and mark well each of you the scarce spontaneity remains of what you drag down from vibrant air to groggy earth). The survivals time is not worth going into now in case the dormant migraine flares up at something seen more than understood. A familiar calypso for example niggling away at understated subtle nuanced resonant grievances of a well trod path best avoided.
Other makings of the homespun sun were animal waste and goosebump welter And it was there in ancient rhymes the ripe shrubs robust writhed. His self and the sun were become one And his atrocious ill kempt poems, remakings of his self, were no doing of the sun. It was not important that they should survive. What mattered was that they should bear comforting lineament for a character of the age. Some degree of affluence, if only half-perceived, dwells in the poverty of their eyes, of the planet of which they were part.
Wallace Beery’s Babes were also part. Up to take a piss and anoint wild wounds thrice in the night and by fluke encountered AN Wilson on the picture box talking TS Eliot in stately homo rooms and outside mincing crisply round revered ancestral piles disguised like a belle epoque nihilist in a gauche inky purple beret and authentic pro situ shades, an emaciated highbrow peruses the slums of Little Gidding. Most edifying. Went back to bed and thrashed til dawn till Humpty Dumpty called me to ask if I know what a rhapsode is. Didn’t remember and mumbled harps and dulcimers before bidding a fond farewell with a loving poke of my thyrsis. There inafter it came as no shock to find out three have quit the tory story at Chez Vertigo in a spat over the ongoing Bauxite impasse.
Painted naffly six blooming daffs stuffed in a dirty glass of gripe water as a pop eyed mean old man preps hen with lemon, garlic , olive oil etc in the galley…editing’s a task for smart alexas who lost badly playing abject chess after encounter distracted by flaming marsupials , seven deadly dins ensued and we concurred the jacket spuds were ready, after tucking into chicken eucalytus marmalade, got a fit of the scribbles, dashed two posts off, a mediocre potpurri of pretty picks?
Left bereft past caring either way just pleased to have broken the bad spell (two years!…and the rest old chum!!) bloody narks, no resistance to wonga means bad scripture class. Still the chicken sufficed– avocados grapes. TUC cheesy wafers, sauces hot and mild yet something is missing, the heirophant has left the room for outer space of a nope name journal for a kickabout, a dribble, a rehearsal of dead ball situations, how to negotiate wonky roundabouts, or reveal a shuttlecock on a driven pile, turning on its own for spite– consider these deserted playgrounds, clear of fag ends, coke tins, sweet rappers, impromptu barbershop quartets, short and curlies soaked in wet rubber diapers, abandoned polio kids on grotesque dazzle stilts, go not down to babbling brook, them microfish got teeth effendi. Look on instead with absorbent gaze as a cloud scuds over a field of maize and get it down quick before it evaporates

The sundown spoof unravels; bad workmanship made odds fave to blame; twentyone indies and counting now sat on the whiggish rump thus May heads off defeat by nine; out of the country by the time the shit hits perhaps? The F-Bomb calls between innings in a keenly ignored one day drag; what was that oozing the base of the doors–it hurts to hear; cubist daffs attract blue lines from an Umpire of the slum in Windsor on a downtown Sunday morning crawling past in lice bejewelled vermin crusted watching ermine embedded on parade while down the food bank the Duchess of Dank squats dribbling on her chiffon sushi recovered from a regency grundon on a car battery UXB coins a ticking on the porch. Won the race for time to cook sausages before the thing goes pfoof. Phew! the relief of it all. The sausages are fine now with all nervesshredded. And all of this accomplished while bathing ulcers in antiseptic teatree sap.
Sun out! Daffs citric yellow…hoover roars, rump of day trundles into action. Read Canto III of Dante’s Divine Epic. Virgil waiting in the wings: that Beatrice don’t half go on at times…
Holy toe attended to; navy dressing gown spawns brand new micro climate: ‘Tis my condition’, I enlighten dumbstucco onlooks only to receive hoots of derision from the tawdry old owls
Money! low on blow…’Jones Rocks Up’ (working title minus work); The Bard of Staple Hill took ill & asked for a replace. right place at the right time no worries guaranteed. timing is everything temporal (quite a lot). Ups & Downs of Marasmus Snr: a world of woe and baskets;shoot before you leave…
Zoom! Hall door wiped Zoom!! Sat out, read about retroflection, dranks two coffees Zoom!!! Wiped the hall door passably Zoom wrote this, Off…
Zoom! Could not relent Zoom!! Mantelpiece, lampblack fireguard, abandoned hearth, cheap shit sideboard, tat clock. perspex crucifix, chic curved staplers, shillelagh obelisk, Grand Central Station carpet remnant— all wiped wiped most perfunctorily Zoom!!! Emptied an ashtray for absent fiends
Mist greets dawn in blissful haze, cleaned upmedication corner bags, three hours soft labour; petroleum spray renders me imflammable; upstairs fo a smoke break found magic red paste! toe cavity insulation after douche; mad Dan Walker commands the USAF to celebate ten deaths. Dust rules KO…
covered up the chasm with red magic & kitchen towel cone, wrapped it in white stocking and hid it in a slipper, recommenced the purge Zoom! Thai nightlight jigsaw washed and left to drain, swept up dead cypress fronds and chestnut oak leaves, drank coffee. sun is out now i shall follow proundly thru the front portal to do…nowt for an hour
Made it here at last, had to come up to change from last week’s clothes water horse and washboard, y- faced spruce up a bit especially after yesterday and the sore toe and the fear of fallow wormwood. Still never mind I’m here now, ready for decoding Nefertiti
the big white house in the woods on the hill cropped up while talking with The Man about hedgehogs. he showed me some amazing footage of him being approached while walking the dor round the corner at five to six in the morning– well what i made of that was hunger after the cold snap wiped out the local edelwiess, a endangered species round here for donkey’s years, I’m told.
Who was it had a deaf labrador called Sniff, the big White house on the hill in the woods?
‘Hardboard, hardboard hardboard is all I hear morning noon and night, from dawn to dusk, twenty seven eleven and all the days between excepting Christmas when we talk turkey and very little else comes round from the dwarf house to share a cracker and exchange pernicious glances…’
that was what I am pretended the Nun next door to the big white house next door talked liked. She was a friend of my mum who used to service the House and drag me with her. She had three sons from a devious relationship and the youngest, Dave, was foisted on me for dull company and secret policing, he knew of my growing reputation as a cat burglar.
one grey morning in winter i was sat in the big white house on the hill in the woods, i was on a giant chair staring through the wide bay windows, across the flagstones and down to the empty swimming pool, unused for years and covered in slime and frogs, when Jim Morrison stepped out dipped in black ink and smiled laconically before walking off. this really happened. like everything it was a trick of the light. Not really what i meant but got it down
put in meat to heat took seat and when sat fancy that an acrobat lurks in a daffodil shadow dancer going good to soft throwaway evens odds
chance encounter with Basingstoke AFC Nineteen Fifty Two raw recruits and wartimers national service local plod all knew PC Arlott seconded to The Cricketers for sinful skinfuls and goodfellow banter, rowdy bar brawls ten a penny, Sunday church to act repentent sinner hairshirt of dog bolts sunday dinner have a cardiac snooze eat tinned salmon dainties round on Aunt Chutney with not long to go and good bit put away besides
just want to get on get ahead get somewhere in life just want to see the world have a place in France somewhere to get away to in life just want to slip away end of May on a merry dance somewhere in life
ice breaks waters waters flow its not how you want or who you like that matters
gildied lillies and scrumbled yawns, linctus armchairs, hair stuffed lawns, extensive dawn gets up to greet you
mr interrupter butted in to disapprove after pondering at length the prose of cheese
leave the rest of that lethal stick where it belongs and go and grab some rays i dare I fear i’ll lose it on the stair i’ll tarry here a while with this stone head
go lose a game of chess at least…
But now i won and i am 1182 all out and day crumbles into evening and Wales beat england at big bear hugs and…caught the sun and dropped it in a jiffy bag; should be something else somehow, what with all this good weather, but no, day has come and gone, cruise controlled, bumbling, wary, awkward to chance encounter, out of practise man you don’t hardly ever meet no one around
fingers feeling better, gaing a typing rhythm, away…
long passages involve more breatheRS room to manoeuvre uber…
BIG TRail showing first thing starred Rebecca Kelly & big leggy romancing the go west old fart gin lane settlers raoul walsh 1931; injun troubles stirred up by cartoon lowbrow mob, sharp shooting black hats bite dead sussed, played by Tyrone Power Snr, shot by toothless oldtimer pioneer, role model for Walter Houston and the toothless cook in Red River played by Norman Gunston; chopping down cardboard redwoods not so noble now, cellophane sequoia and backlot Cheyenne in pure ethyl ignorance- Oregon Trailer Trash role models, How the West was Grunge…
half moon slipped nowhere into dawn lurking up there somewhere smirking
open windows, ate ultra healthy option fuitfest grabole yogurt honey, too a bomber and its attendent tiddlers, had a fizzy after slippery dung obnoxed wet room stale nightshift heat, up here socked heavy, aint doing leaves too wet Luther; Manny and Stotty coiffure the larch, attach to birdsheds
cant remember exactly when but hazard a guess at Tuesday last; obligatory post in new second hand coat; off to catch some rays methinks…
Sort of did but watercolour got me going.
monday no milk outrage — why came he not in the middle of the night?
swept another layer of winter dross off of the path– big women drop off offspring (not so busy these days, has the boom wave ebbed, austerity nibbled into a secret cheese, housing, moving up the greasy ladder, can’t get the staff these days, working from home, something in the water…listless emd ifs and buts, drawing no conclusion, longtitudinal approach comes highly recommended at the committee stage, truth is fresh out of green paper, firm downsized to eco wrappers for half digested biscuits sttod at bus queues waiting for the moon
nippy out big warm coat and wooly noddy hat fit for the part of disabled resident doing his bit for order
banjaxed as to do what next as per distant aria laments radical veruka be yourself ate scropula scapula took umbrage always trouble brewing after that from one day forth and so on feuds and scraps of silver tassies glinting angels on hogs back tumuli litter levelled playing fields battlegrounds and dinnerbells a terrible hiding is sustained bang out of order was it playing catch up petulant outburst quick to it learnt or got jury never came back most plumped learnt i guess prejudice mind nagging doubt remains genome keeps time makes spots on cows look random not said turing at some stage of plausible imaginings in a strange tongue space state algebra booles logic bomblast the door off whoops a daisy unforeseen consequences of blind mans buff masquerading as venetian blind venetian to fine one eyed kings in cubby holes drinking lemon tea
woe betid woe be gone go pester schwester for a bung
Quiet hour feeling radio off crisp cold draft blows sharp through prized prism window stuck with it mind did not relent as i pass by after 2013 autumn notes depressed me on the bog frosted angels snow mountain folk sleep deep down silver mines alarmed that karma ate dogma impelled a hard act to swallow wolf down relish chew over ruminate mull gull suck luck lick sick cardinal son:
Wireless off, TV off, just you and me kidder, what’s happening?
fairy lights on glass amphora, orange brown ambience, curtains drawn, still night just morning, not me again all day, when sun gets up i will out and scumble in the hinterland, immortalising stones and truncated oaks, waxy laurel, jagged grasses, bones of budding shrubbery in bowlers and grey gabardine four endomorphs arrive with the box us two are six two they average five ten, a visible tilt to the mourning crowd, we agree to bend at the knee, how silly sod frost malingers clear night snap daffs likes twiglets camera zooms whirrs clicks caught it on my mobile:
where now mein herring?
A partridge & a pugnacious loafer follow an overdue shower; slick partridge explores seemless levels interwoven house trained psychopups toilet gagging mime till all breaks down in mute nostril armchair agony of handwash maitliss encountering ineffable twat in a see through elevator who penless begs right on question love me BBC ( A cock up and a bully yarn punctured slapstick nightmare real time mock up mirror scene in Kane infinity of urinals, twisted flaw unravels silk, deaf as a psst subbies on for prompt stir coffee with avocado spoon think dickhead dance a dawdle brain hair down light rain falls on burner lid; little pots on rampbrickwall) up here again for fusillade of flux end of…camera on regards surrounds as if handheld on to of neck: fulsome daffs, carboard bluebirds, shut the window, heater up to 22, freshly out nasty chills forewarned, whole avocado I’ll have you know– Anavocado, Anavocado.
borderline hour ten eleven will he show or will he no? No need to call time in world of chill out now the cat is out out bag and sitting up now, unlolled by cramps, tingly arm pressed tight to sidewalll, marching on toward, leant forward look toward, head start in the mildewed wilderness, hunter & hunted merge, prey & predated heavily sedated, hare coursing mad as marchmains; winds due at noon, over ripe walnuts, loss of loose water, leaky tubes cost lives, wind & wuthering taking tolls, Wallace Greenslade headbuts Eccles, suedehead upmarket dinner jacket arsehole, smoked a pipe like uncle arsehole, cravatted gauncho on alpha romeo wish list semi green with ivy
nor not as we thought we knew it, neither…the syruppy voice trails off to grotesque gurgle, anticlockwise yokel slips down the sinkhole, a bullfrog in the throat of rubric ubend, caustic sod all to say to eachother anyway these days, lighten up it would if you did you nasal hair, slimy lamprey hidaway conceals enfant terrible, shallowly musing under a clarinet rainbow, no coffee left only bloody tea bags; things to try us sent in spades, spades to fashion open sunlit caverns.
If not what? look up…no joy. How long will we wait? Hill and Valley, the Radio Doctor and Naughty Rudi Bown at the Old Bullshit and Bushmills–everso smart as ants in pants, warriors both off course. Then Boom. Woke up covered in pasta! Pressure cooker popped big time. Bit more than a pop you think. Time for sure will tell if you persist. Keep quorn and carry awn. Spring 1945 and all that jizz. No bloody teabags, only empties. Cant get the staff upright. The others are in sick bay shirking. Make do and mend then. Make do and bloody mend again. Make do and bloody mend the only game in toon

Made in Heaven

Seven years a witch stuck under a frozen gibbous moon, small wonder Winifred cursed the lack of miracles as she roams a barren land, its tribes convulsed with wild distemper, with only scourge and slaughter on her twisted mind still waiting for her ladybird to show.

Complaisant workadays spent long days resenting away the cultivation of yellow broom weed beside a crumbling hillfort, scrambling over scree & rubble to escape the advances of priapic holy men who mean no witch no good, and scratching healing mosses and cosmetic slugslime to trade in dainty pots at the fete worse than death, sometimes scavenging hollowed out ribcages for swallowed relics to spend on stationery.

An old wolf howls the banshee howl to attend a dying woman in stark distressed confinement as she unleashes another little bastard on an all-seeing all-knowing world

Conquering bastard that Robert Bartlett ringfencing my head with an on off switch fuck this for a game of drones doc I’m switching channels and going to renail the bed. Smart Alecs of repute must gather in the little white chapel Anjouvin jackdaws drop sticks in blasted oaks, mandrakes bespook the corpse strewn fields of Plantagenet broomscrub and a wench flies out of a window chasing a bogus fishman and a sniggering doghead.

—Sweet dreams Booby!, chuckled Chuck exhausted, sailing away from a cove of erudite discourse a to excruciating night of Yancy’s easily terminable chatter..

Too quick to dismiss these witterings as unworthy as they were filtered through feeble double vision, we learn the bird has first to trust its own weight before it can learn to fly and in so doing hit the concrete floor with a sickening thud. The consolation of fly swatting revealed did not itself by chance! Is not this the way of falling? The Tao interjected impasively . A eureka moment (for eureka sunlight made instant wondrous an heroic nettlebed not born of hubris fast encroaching on a house in dire need of tender live in care?). Enclosure was the last word he heard that day.

Looks like the end in this case will cost a lot of means.

---

Just past ten to twelve loafing beside the crimson windmill in the famine barnyard when a fragile peace broke down and a time of bread and miracles started up again. Some fool had dropped the phial and released the hand break on austerity which so gripped passive spectators, probably the culprit was the slipshod Mortenson, a tortured undersecretary easily waylaid by when how to get by minus feet or lower limbs, his name crops up frequently in the records.

The nurses were coming. Prematurely forming in a mind’s lie they gather before the Shrine of Hecate shrouded in a scotch mist chanting teeny-bobber hits of yesteryear in mesmeric tones, spraying perfumed disinfectants and spilling pink gin spiked with rose water on Marasmus who lay prone on the stack of faggots. As they performed the rites in a furtive native language an assassin made copious notes in the deep folds of the Chesterfield. This was no time for the future though, living through the last of days would prove no walk in the park thought Orzo.

Flattish after Jasmin tea and seedless oranges, half-priced sour grapes, and a selection of well hard cheeses, Mrs Gooding turned her thoughts to treacle pudding. Her blessings far outweighed her co-morbidities by two according to Felicity Frivolous, the virtual trainer in her ear. Original music from Fame drowned out mortal fears went down well on second hearing. A civilized departure was advisable. A clinical dismissal of longevity for a dog that never had its day off.

‘If we knuckle down to it we can crack this thing,’ The Head of Loot Engineering texted from a chicken shack. Huzzah. Huzzah, the corpulent cried, and do not relent until we frazzle the blighter’s ears in butter. A noise above. At top of stairs a writhing audible. A ludicrous no, He took the shock very well. Buried it deep down hidden from the light of day so it only comes out at night like dentures!

Flop of bellyful in shake bog. Big drip splashes. Exclamation mark. Big full stop. Savoy cabbage leaves, homemade piecrust shoreline, a teardrop explodes, a chance occurrence prompted by a shit in the dark, overwhelmed teal jellied eel high on the hoof, even a kneejerk reaction prompted by brainwaves, found blotto in grotto, under landlocked peninsulas that pine for the ocean.

They attributed it all to the spasms and vicissitudes of live bubble-gum lodged in his pylorus. The public were not to know at all costs. Orzo was adamant. If this ever got out…the language assassin told the ladybird. Who spilled the beans to Winnifred? What a tangled web we wove!

---

So shall he distant overtures to evil empires compose for the lunch of glorious age of gammon. Man’s gotta eat, Bro. So we quit the zany medieval for less muddled times. The age of Ford and function. Constructing pyramids in honour of escape from Walt. The Sumerian dream! Living out renal failure in the fleshpots and waterholes of a thousand casbahs.

Left behind a trail of puny butterflies of discord. Then came the ominous cringes. Started off as a nagging whinge then a gripe and built into a classical grudge, passing through wince and snap, grunt and groan, cut and thrust then. One seedy night in Old Algiers, a full-blown sulk which lasted wind assisted till old age took over. A blessed relief for none concerned. A Change was not as good as a rest. Orza’s untimely intervention soon put an end to it.

While about his daily mope in the orange grove he came across a salivating pig blocking his sullen path. Avoiding eye contact he swerved left and the pig swelled to confront him face to sweating face. Instinctive as ever he shut his eyes, puckered his dour lips, and waited in dread expectation of intimacy with the beast. None came and he peeped to find the pig was gone.

Now the pig may have vanished but he found he was wrapped up in a thin film of philosophical wool. It began to rain. The wool gathered together into an enamel over his whole body blinding him. An age passed encased listening to the rain slow to a spit. When the strong summer sun returned one morning the shell cracked open and before him stood a total black void garlanded by a sparkling migraine which wriggled when glimpsed.

A gentle knock comes on the back door; it is a nurse who shall remain faceless who delivers a message, fresh dressings and bandages to add to the growing stockpile in the drawing room – The Doppler is at two-thirty next Tuesday and will take five minutes and I must lie down for half an hour and relax for half an hour and not misbehave and get cleaned up. I promise a state of Zen in a will grace their attendance. So it’s four days grace over dire Whitsun god help us—BH on Monday, spiralling off course into a week of graphene screen. Behold the Void. Smile before a pure white light, Think twelve impossible thoughts, Enjoy the sunbeams unblemished by aircraft,

To say that the sweeping was slapdash would be misleading, the outcome I do not disagree is scruffy and half-hearted and in that word, we have our answer.

I have got my slippers on. The path is swept. Walkies! Dogless in Wildmeadow finding fault, feeling foul, floundering in froth; sweeper takes the air, giant foxgloves, jumbo daisies, wild sweet William nestled in a swamp of nettles round a rusted burner. Wonky walk inside rewarded by a smoke and update. Little errors overlooked turn into burdensome encumbrances.

White vinegar first or no way in. House rules imposed by whim or fancy? A quirk of personal taste, a foible earnt in seeking acceptance from significant others, refined and adapted to a perfect marriage of sense and sanity. The boffins of Tring worked late into the morning composing eye catchy narratives to conceal an absence of wet forest dreams.

Weirdly wise king of the heap passed on to moonlit uplands chain bound as the trees, halted, leant on an iron railing and raised his foot to examine his soles for dogshit, found none, but still smelt shitty. No equilibrium or harmony when something sticks like that. Sticks especially when greens abundant make common cause with considerable lumps of blue, orange features tellingly throughout offset by droll geraniums chortling over creole stories.

Harriet says what Walter says— Honey flavoured Tunes. It started with a curse and ended in a nurse. Evenings they rambled together alone through chicken bones and xylophones, aquafers and conifers, forgetting not to blink. Packing it all in with a keen intensity beyond the thrill of capture. A hare aware of what was afoot took notes from a considerable distance avoiding detection like the plague.

Mistakes in the variety show of overwhelming force were exposed in the exuberant second act. Was this not the way of the world? What use does a petrified public have with the old hard luck stories told in the lurid cellophane glare of ‘ain’t-it-awful’’ showbiz kids and barrel bomb pornographers. The use is purely economic and reinforces fear and loathing in the dungeon of anxiety.

Ides

• 

Saw them hanging loosely on the bureau and read ’em over and crept out tippytoes incandescent, slinking sidling sneaky seethe s;
six months of intensive armchair; bidding to fake a great escape in inauspicious circumstances:
Coriolanus rampages throughout, leaving sawbonnne doctors
signed off sick, self medicating on left hand dog legs, shy and retirig,
retiring that is to pick discretely on spicy edibles and creosote
platelet dainties.
Let nature to its own devices carving fresh streams
through obsolescent new builds grown
measly cold on indifference.

inner sanctified mood divine, a place where hubris rages;
note those whose eyes speak of it in copious volumes;
‘Cumin 61, your time is up’; not on this atomic watch, thought our Henry
counting unhatched reptiles in the potting shed.
When Alice said and did we lived we ate we shat like lords; perfected the warblings of a gobsheen,
found worrying working titles that stuck lik4e dags to wooly umpers. Roofer
glued and riveted, laddish manecdotes, a cream is readily available down the local dragstore

Fish’n’Chips, fission ships, warm glow grub in a iffy jiffy; whose watch is it now Pip Marlowe? Pritti
she got form, hissy fitter, sinew nitter, giant shitter takes no prisoners. Like i say previous spotted
down the workhouse playing electrodes with her underlings. Despatch we so we do with
stale dates and leave dried up figs in the box by the prewar piccallili and bully beef. Much dross
to cut through yet reads the writ of spring when the world warms to its thermos flask

Punic stations consternation swamps the picture boxes; a journal of the plague year flies off
the shelves like light in a mirror or hot cakes. Silly yet impossible not to…barf (short trousered
giggles repressed down antiseptic corridors go undetected by starched aprons). A child is bored
being dragged post pillared round opulent dwellings and nicking nothing while you wait.
Sometimes a glass of orange squash and a rich tea disc.

Informal as if fair withered by friends you seem as strangers unknown to Adam McAddam, the fruit of
a madam turned piccolo lip; went out ginger one wild night rambling in strawberry moonlight
by the dark of a sun called Persimon. Made short to Persy, though note with an ess not a sea. Silk purse
sows ear breakthrough specious. Fall start…won a game of chess! Boris still shaking hands…

Notes from a Chameleon

Buddies burst in from outer space growling oriental chainsaw spelling peril: Peril

silver trembles on emerald leaf splits the sky wide open rents
flaked out in gauze tropospheres sedation
sifting though space junk plunder in the sparse first light
rooftop silhouette
opposite is a chocolate rhombus a pollarded alp sprouts crumbly chimney stumps
a decapitated toblerone
topped off by a crowned

rigid khaki wrack stacks wobble precariously perched atop burden cast away
crumbledown ambleside mountain Under which above
little fat boy wants out Cader Idris sizzles
protesting the right scree flurries overlap
to reek havoc & rage & rumpus prospect of an avalanche
confined to poxy screenplay dross deemed unfit for family fun
cross legged zapping seagulls winging blackbirds drive folks hopping mad

grinding anthracite briquettes coal shed solitary
modest refinement
converting them to coking coal hatching audacious escape plans
sudden urge to defaecate running out of temper
silence compromised by

HYACINTHS
calcutta coal shed

Paradiddle drip on porchway
overflowing gutters an ardent dew fell overnight

Farley Hill rests in peace
The square left to merge

17:22 14/10/2019
close to hibernation; dreamtime in the shires; nighlights; chess slight reprise;

09:29 15/10/2019
tv ban; radio silence; rogue podiatrist pops by, house hexxed ny negligence; showered as nursey visits; chess mid 1230’s
and the live one…end of winning streak; all fell flat at 17:18 15/10/2019

11:59 16/10/2019
good win sets up the chessday, the outside world is murk concealing yuck; a pipe of old grey, a buoyant loaf, a mix of
influences to enjoy…will there be a pmqs? my eyes are getting worse. artificial light a must. it was still dark at seven thirty;
a heavy twilight; not long till the clocks go back; how long ago did I get paid; thoughts of open fires and foaming
pints vanish come eleven; all that getting ready…

two fizzies dropped in tap water. a shot of cranberry the second time round. If red candles on: blue candles off;
back to fresh dream bed for breakfast;
hoover up, as in stairs, aboveness the location; where server updates spoof disease; do people work in real time?

Cautious Emma always slides on wet stuff. Catch a nasty chill in this she will; clouts recommended are clouts rejected;
stroppy forty three year olds; internalized know alls detect from far the

sound of distant sausages impeding progress on the jaunty loaf of life; southsouth west an alarm wails, a dog yaps–
is clipping time come round again? Perhaps a minor accident

On the grubby outskirts. a bypass roundabout gridlocked seethes; trepidatious revs resound;
that bloody alarm is getting on my tits; just having a wee write i was; not many around so took the chance
nobody seems to want disturbing; what a bloody bore; getting on with it, they call it; doing the rounds of the daily grind;
now the bloody engines choking;

This henry lark, he repeated: is it really all about Lydia?
Endless reruns of screenspace necromancies.
Life goes on streaming without you know.
Vomit–see what comes up whole
Enjoy the ride. Best you can sober stay that is it could prove novel.
truth is i am off it keeps. regular hours did it hands up.
Fixity of purpose. No more delusions of grandeur. The good old nine to five.
A creative in a canvas sandpit sustained
by holograms of angels dusting

17:06 16/10/2019
a good bit later it would seem, sun going down, the radio voice of Evan Davis rabbits on
explaining things for lesser species in a friendly tone that no one in their right mind trusts
Everybody carries an agenda in their portfolio nowadays Young Cheroot she said looking
for a hook to grab me with. To sweep me up and carry me off while at the same time staying
put is a canny trick, calmly intrusive, yet stubbornly resisting further tales of jellied eels and cyanide.

19:32 16/10/2019

Return from elsewhere bearing only a keen clean sentience of an inner voice previously
unheard thus impossible to speak of in external narratives; a new voice slushing pumping
pellucid entropy only to give way when you enter the tranquil hours unimpaired by must be’s;
some say self compassion works both ways; they say it’s good to talk to invisible friends and
to say i worry such a lot and know they understand and freak the same way to when they see
no way out but up; but here in the lonely world there is just the hideous smell
of dreamtime in the shires.

11:17 17/10/2019

five line entries, four line whips, cat o’nines, catacombs, catamites, catatonics–
not my kind of cruise ship the SS Sadist. Still whatever floats your boat at these prices
that which don’t disturb the horsies riding rough shod over rippling waves ignore the
gentle thud of slugs hitting sack; tax haven never on yer nelly; eye open for the main chance mind
make a run for it across the non existent border washed by all waters;
one finds occupation of the crease involves
focussed awareness to achieve desired outcomes

11:41 17/10/2019
Celtic knots do my head (think upside the box); midday shakedown, let the blood flow
crimson rivers of chicken livers; five lie whip transgression; respect the rules to break
them, just play the bloody game for once. Abide by unwritten rules of bleak estrangement

10:08 18/10/2019
Storm lashed night, thunder and lightning from the north; sunny morn. no milk delivered,
Drawing lurid conclusions– twisted metal, milky puddles, revaged hats distressed by blast
no real vision to speak of; sloth unprovoked to rise in spite of prophecy. Read some myth
for illumination. Nursing due at some stage. Shower or Scuba. Nosepegs and air freshener
hide corruption. Standards increasingly low. Nowt gets done if you stay abed.
End of broadside…

13:42 18/10/2019
ninety minutes that transformed my toe and brought disaster to a flawed grandmaster who
failed to understand what was under his nose. From the frozen seas of Ross up an endless
glazier we were aware the horses would be eventually sacrificed for some greater good
called lunch…

14:08 18/10/2019
Why this need to make. To prove a cake will be? Curling up time in forget me knots
Weepy time down south. Florence Rightangle squares a circle. A marmut grabs the spotlight
inside a paintbox horses would be sacrificed under my nose distracted by smoke knots of
dreek estrangement

20:00 16/10/2019
IMAGINE a handful of bitesize hunkettes
grinding and eschewing odds and winnow gunk
as wheat gets beat from from dusty chaff;
a’harvesting for instant potassium milords;
ill and non directed groups share
no such similarities;
no such what as absolutes in such
matters
of incidental fiction;
manipulation of a squashy universe of racketeers, bogus schemes and brutal intrigues:
That’s Life—thats Happitalismus; so sundry fictive people say
just look the other way if you know what’s good for you;
plenty more lying around to fill your brambled mind with;
such as…such as…such as…
This

• it is worth noting that the child whose father refused to purchase a bow wow succumbed to her injuries
  as a wallflower met a sticky end stood up too close to the warm glow of endless possibility
  grip it firmly shake it hard squeeze each last drop out grasshopper
  rigid condensed uptight desperate dabblings in matters
  outwith all known comprehension clearly aren’t your forte

07:26 17/10/2019
Just got light attack– aqua, tourquoise, hoodwinked moon ;
optimistic widows admit bird chirps & freshly risen air;
early worms give up dull ghosts & head for air conditioned dayjobs;
DUP hold out for Juul tides, white riders & moonlit oceansides
prearrange red handshakes in vacant dayglo barns;
many the slip twixt cup and lip .
Itching to get on with it. It.
Awayday from bondage incarnate.
Aweigh ye chocks. Aweigh wiya…

07:38 17/10/2019
PIGMENTS call the shots
IN THE bOOK OF Kells:
first dip a hairy stick in mud,
apply it so a stippled surface,
discover Bob’s your uncle.
oak apples in gallotanic acid
give us warm blacks to quaff;
watching miniver coalesce in a squirrel’s chuff;
insular scripture drives you nuts in the end;
twenty layers of glaze captures skin tones for posterity
better hang around to see…

08:56 17/10/2019
final thoughts on the present sound very much like the first; dayshift looming large; missed first half an hour of eugenics;

09:31 17/10/2019
Wind up time begins; much to do today; wear fluffy slippers, sup green tea,

Call Me Raffles

New box arrived pronto
Boris got a rescue doggy
a right little jacques rousseau…
chess ban talks in jeopardy

(got them oiks real pieces?)
strong comes a gust of wind

blows a leaf off a pile of dud copies of a futile student loan to study classical misogyny

2017 was indeed a watershed year. The year pure terror hit. Did i ever get over the bombardment.
Did the neuron bombers pull it off
It struck that summer…this is what happened
a practitioner of faction and friction requres superior diction spout disingenuous crap like a etonian twat
and be suspectful of parcels from Dingle
Can Dozy do it? Can Biffo win the day?

Fast pulsating rythm rush of blood flurry of activity engagement of the brain enragement a estrangement convenient excuses for disengagement or real obstacles. How safe? Who knows?

I turn my back
when all Hull breaks loose
on the main downstairs entry–
no arty fysh hook sound
or doctored pictures permitted due to long awaited wireworks
so i return above to listen out for thunders
amongst enclosured mills

get down on it permatwerp said saliva
quench an itch
cadge fresh dream bird early post haste unpaid mil.
kman precedes post sheet white rastabean who brung with a box by
hours beyond nine it was
all is still
orange alarm light flashes on the printer
passing transport scarpers through next bus burning way out west send casualties
to Chickentown Shanghai where
Biff Boff the warlord gone pure crazy
Puppet Saddo conniver eats Jack Russell
Flowerpot keeper and nifty dauber

Hoovering around, the man who wrote Ulysses into a cocked hat
how many lines did you fill in half tidy tidy
in the mountain dew
sharing the slops with an afghan cross
listening always listening
if you’re keen to chew the cud
or merely pass the time of day–
what was is was
let that be an end to it
draw a line and stick to it

Toe Head

Gotten better overnight or just a different sick. Confused? And the purpose of your visit is…? No pulse in my left foot. Hot night, Wet pits…34C they say. Plastic Angie looms . Keep moving on…rolling stones gather round. Ball & Heal thyself docs say…
Watching America strut. Hearing America rant. Drowmimg the World with ackboot claptrap…Bad for the sole & a sod for Jon Codd…Glasto live on nineteen screens…streaming away on the thin ice of anew…stop bragging Grandad we heard it all before…sentimental ceiling wax…downhill skid-marks besmirch the green hill faraway without…slippery slope it seems to Banff…legless in Nassau…Roman road sings in Esperanto

Broad went shopping never came back. Hours pass all the same. Got me big time smashed. Suddenly came a Sunday. The Cure brought home the bacon…bed maintained by Harley Davidson while beloved left toe bleeds out. Nurses reckon it okay. Computer raises doubt? Wimbledon postponed. Lack of staff perhaps the cause…

Pode applied no iodine on Thursday…engineers & healers, runt primeval chickens & twice busted sliding doors, foot seep and dark notions engenger swoons: Cure plays empty Wimbledon night Undercover (remixed singles and forest walks) !959 was not was a vintage year for Niponese babies; anxious mums to be fear worsties: polio, conscription, mutations, vernichtung. Is this why teddy boys don’t cry on purpose, wonderdrugs and first strike fall out- bad for onesies equilibrium eieiohs…found lost in space off Neptune obeying Ophelia & Cordelia (shepherdesses) of the rocky Velt
Expelled from space junket junto yamboree by buoyant Brian Coxxxxxxx…

Monday the second of Wombledon passed by nurselessly reading Circe episode (featuring Henry Flower). Tuesday they show. One ulcer healed. The other no worse…Tuesdays and Fridays from here on. Thoughts of Huw and Noel inspired a search. He quit the scene in 2003…Riske v Gorillaz (tight one in the making). Loosened lax & limp

The man who went out in the cold to fetch in the coal looked back in from the edge of a has seen has been better days duck egg green state hospital air bed. FJ Jnr called in yesterday looking All Shook Up apprehensive of an impending family feed. Moira has come home and died and he had a big dizzy and blow from a tree. The burnt out sheer bloody optic nerve of the man who broke the bank at Del Monte Carlo. Trump licks out British Ambassador with psychotweet. Frenzied pall of resignation to follow

Arsewipe rag status allows time for sycophancy to thrive unhindered. Creeps…artist shrugs cold shoulder in gutter west of prorogue Aim: to carve torso from a tree stump Metho d:1 First retrieve your tree stump from hinter the heaped detritus of half arsed dumping over treacherous holy ground 2 Place tree trunk on workbench in the workshed 3 Get tools from elsewhere Get chiselling…must just get out & about. Ever increasing circles attainable day to day.

State of the Notion. Cut down the grass, Ass! Whistle while you work them legs inside your toddler’s paean. DJ Okey Witch plays Goffin on the lawn. Dog pisses on shrub gnome. Name forgotten in a shrinking universe. Mind Out. Try hard to without oxystuff. Relax. Take the ride: paint the tickets. Small Dreams ovum steam iron scorpio people fear. Came too quick to live it. Coffee speedo rushes on. Halt! A dead on grenadier bearing harms. Funny little neon vial. Cork uncorked. Pop.

Yellow smoke overlaps vial lip drools wafts. Scent of Sphincter gas. Sulphic. Rotten Johnnie’s old school pumps. Plimpsole bags. Collapsed lungs gone Green for Anger. Old boy trusses pendule sacks. Coat and Plimpsole Hooks. Duffel Bags and Duffel coats. Duffel: slat eyed lady of the Flems. Drawstring makes it specials. Kein mehr plat dough jour…swing ‘um with wet pumps in; splatters wooly blazers. Fire sheep look aghast afar off atop yon table top of mounting anger. Lid knuckles white with fear of ear clip for not double underlining. Wooden ruler keeping time and order. Regular as clockface. Shiny shaven sour blank. Twitcheye. Rolls em under lid. See bloodshot whites. Tobacco stained out of a bottle marked ‘Gobstoppers’. Strutters.

Metcalf the name. Deputy Head in times of Absent Head. Skull is better. Some called Skin
Nothing between either of them and heaven. Wisps & Strands. Poor fellahs. Minor gods still
Sting like nettles. Broken canes welt blister. Hurt! Alls well that ends…dead. Somber Hombre. last time i saw Richard was derailed in zero eight. Nein ich luger. Feuerzeug, bitte?
Go flic it your selbs. Beer & Tobacco. Spits. Gruff rustic justice handed out on high. Plough dem fields and scutter…make a crust off of der land. Sir Viv. to be a pillock…robin reliant be a pillhead.

Pill. Under the floorboard hid. Me no want. Make a withdrawal. Guzzled it. Same again? Hair of the dog that bit me Floyd…yessir mistah Toerag. Uggo ick gerraway yardarm over to be so shall bull
Years of thereof this ness. Charakter EZPZ. JJ O’JesterKhazi…silly names, carnival gaud ekes all the craic, What of the quieters? When one is with one and none? Murmerings helterskelt and pelt welter.

Clydoscopic? Shipyards at Night. Spooky Hulls. Lippylaps and gurglings, Ratsplash, crane creaks offset plunging selbstmords, chainrattle and clankety clink. Little chinks. Lady with the Limp lights a gasper. Triggers sensors. Fleets lit up. Majorettes and tumblers coughing up lost gold watches, Moke goes up. Spumily. Seventy six trombonists and counting. Tickertape took Wilkomen for granted. Paper trail concludes herein.

Shit came from Outer Space

‘A postcard from Henry! What’s he up to?’ Edward G asked brandishing his favourite knife.

‘Good Afternoon. After the turbulence of the Van Allen Belt thought i’d grab a quiet moment to drop a line. How goes it? Laters. H. Kissy Kissy’

‘Two kissies–he knows about us.’ Said Edward G skinning a beetroot.

‘Poppycock’. Said Flo

‘What the hell is that supposed to mean?’

‘Own it; you grown it Eddie-Poohs’ Snarled Flo relaxing her iron grip on duplicity

‘There’s that funny little man again.’ Said Edward G reaching for the bi-carb.

‘POPPYCOCK: soft poop as fine as a doll’s ordure.’ Said Flo revealing her Dutch roots.

Epiphanies

• 

Eliza there is no genie, there is no bottle—it’s all in your head!
Eliza looked at the genie and then the bottle and smiled
—And I am not Aladdin, I am Alan Ladd…
Eliza sucked the genie up with her pipette, filled the bottle, and sealed it with the orange rubber bung from her gingham pinafore, got up tutting, shook her pigtails and let loose.
—Silly old me, she said, I do go on sometimes, don’t I? How do you put up with me?
Alan Ladd winced and smiled. Good question.
—What shall we eat tonight?
—Dunno…mince?
Better get some out then
—Okay
~
—Matter prevails over anti-matter, it’s self-evident, said Zak pouring yak’s piss over his Brexit muesli, slurping Jasmin tea, slicing a green banana, feeding a profound need to purge.
—Yes, said Andreas Muggleton, hurry up for God’s Sake I’m famished.
—Food is love and love is to be nurtured, said Zak, buttering wholemeal toast
Bollocks, thought Andreas Muggleton, restraining his tongue till he got fed
—How could you be wrong?
—Here, get that down you
—Wanker
~
Ferdinand and Isabella were not talking again. The silence was cheap and golden. Man, could they go on when they got started. Three days was nothing to them. Their record was six.
They held the Narky Ruler’s Cup eight years running.
The novelty had long worn off.
~
-Oomph, that’s what we need. Oomph!
-No mate, graft is what we need. Graft!
Chain gang noises exercised Paul Muny and the Seven Dwarfs all morning
-Hi-Ho! said Walt, dodging airborne digging implements.
A nightmare in the dream factory, Walt’s Deepest secret fear. Money.
When will Herbie ever ride again?
~
Witheld rang ten times
Nobody answered once…
That’s all it takes
Mickey Mouse massages.

The petrified brain of a well thumbed Thesaurus
washes up in Bexhill-on-Sea– aren’t men useless?

Chaotic breakfast spent catching runner beans
microwave porridge explodes while washing goolies
well spotted leopard insists bananas lead to hope & glory
so shiny you can see your face in it ( black square self portrait hob
mirror grey bronchial oatsnot splats rubbery scullery gloop spluttery honey globules scarce as golden teardrops blow rude raspberry fanfares
forget me not sings plaintive to a dried up chicken thing
menacing the world from top oven bunker
watersplash revivable for much later on
after blueberry elevenses…

Gimlet’s Squib

• 

El Diablo, it read, ever were you again to find yourself in a position to carve out some repute, to curry fervour, as famine dog breeder, to propagate the dominant scavenger gene strident to the fore, or perhaps blaspheming in a sullen gulley, a gnarled truculent gourier bladdered on dry wry cocktails, waiting for cheesy snippets & scraps to fall in your soup stained lap; or play grandson of a grey ozone cannibal, a preserver of ancestral hunter’s loot, hyena like pernicious in the time warped manner, yes then people who see through you at once would get meaner, for they is getting tooled up early El Diablo… I’m a’feared to say what i heard on the wavy air lest it perturbs you LOL. Yours. Jack Gimlet’

Man’s a dreamer, though Sherlock Henry, observing letter writ in haste thus slapdash poor, paper comprised of duck egg hemp mulch, faux Castilian shagwreck, dry caked blood-signs of forced over consumption, down on withered left side uppers shred, varicose vainly dismiss all peril fears prove bogus,

Will Beryl put the finger on it, best advice methinks–but it is a start Diablo, she reflected? How many pilgrim walks remain open to us mon petit choux? They would wince. Ought we parley nonetheless, Jack may turn out spoofster — wherein can you see harm? I you see see nothing clearly, Buddy, Buddy all is squidge, slush, lutescense, one slow slog through retrenchant mire, well rounded compounded sleepless days

–Then what is left to lose, comrade? Therein fear you find the rub may snap?

Gimlet’s letter had clearly done the trick. No matter how El Diablo tried to give it time to pass over, no matter how he focussed, oh how it snagged tenacious. Sure some days wore better than others, yet it never went full away. If not, what to do then? More of the same knowing they will all laugh when i show myself up. Up as what? So began the agonising pause. For how long this time? As long as long takes. Why do we bother? Damned if i know? the usual. same old. what will we with the cumbersome sausages? turn them down. put in the tomatoes. both parties are down. the audience has seen enough. tear it up and forget it. but memories are deep as dust of working days imagined a ball. Yes. Attend a Ball. A Masque. It was the eyes that got her. Intricate.

Trefoil glow wriggle Flo…

June crawls out of flower bed into being and washes up on
sugar glass and sinew
Contemplates a cup of tea whilst weighing up the perils that haunt kettles.
Underfoot bread crumbs provoke one to Wendy Hop & Polka.

Must we now feel wince at the troubling stumble of decay, or faceup to
someones fact you’ve had a day in the sun
Very like a Mayfly did?

Loaf on Mars above the Planets peep out to see what’s going down Moonday morning sunshine to last according to experts; festooned by shower fronts.
good for smiley growers–appreciably quieter in the hood. Are the Dannies off on hols?
best enjoy it while you can. Have a puff. Paint. Write. Levitate Eat cous–cous…have no clue what to do Suzie Q.
Something practical (not my forte). Get fresh air. Radical steps. Talk shop to postman
Shoot yes over the fallow crop.

Please yourself, a challenge. Loose ender. Competitions! Cleared the mail heap. Think hard and write it. No time
for less. Ad hoc…
smoke goes up…
Whose?

The streets are reals that never lie…roadsweeper
Trump gets into mop up. Sense goes out to lunch.

Sycophantic beebsters… let sick minds run free. Whippet Whippet…beyond
Moon. England/Pakistan perform run chase radio…unintrigued;
sat out but briefly (how the garden’s grown!)Pinball
feels compelling (summer vortex threat). Last days of Trump watch. 75 years since D Day.

In and out upand down…chocolate bars
fruity cereals bacon butty coffee galleons. Trapped. The first Wednesday of June 2019 going up the wall. A god will always come…better keep eyes pealed. Everybody must

First Day & Last Day D-Day
Big Red sofa on Gold-

pen & ink wash Lowries scatter long shelf littoral
Normandy beach head- white warhorse called George – 150 euthanized in Liverpool (Good day to bury bad)
under Western skies. Feel optimistic. Scared of loud voices. Quiet as the gravy. Fatties at the double. Jogging
to the sea. at the double. Boudicaa drops anchor. Strike up the band. Last post & chorus. All are called & several
are frozen. Bowels churn. Left a remnant dithering. Mattock & banana. Thing between two trees. Words fail.
What is it called? Hammock for a lazy cunt. Naga rates the weather: Stunning. First one with false teeth chatters
loosely. Bicycle clips from the archive. Hard sharp yappy dead. Guerillas in the mist. Brandishing satsumas
disguised as petards. That’ll shift the bugger. Jelligernite. Head and shoulders wash up. Early morning suds.
No marigolds for Miss Blandish. Polite enquiries evince short shrift. Pen poised to complain. Bollockbefriendingbeard.
Trimmit. Non comissioned orifice kicking over traces. Fulminate for fifteen minutes. Yayas? Get ’em out. Pincer movement
with tender tweezers. Keep young & bootiful. do the Turkey trot. Oh no! Not the fucking bagpipes.
Ver-Sur-Mer; Arromanches; Bayeaux. Fir to middling fallen later. Fumegate the vastibule. You can never be too careful.
I go sinking boxes. Raining German guns. All bunkered up & huckled down. Warm and dry and nice. Handwoven
machine gun cozy. Time for a bad salad. Raglan Road co opted. Pump organ action. Cut to more fucking bagpipes.
Italy’s a basket case. Bloody meditteraneans. Play not by the rules. Loop. Seven thirtenn alreaday milif…fed on bacon-fed on eggs
pronounced limp quits bed of nails
who said ripples never comeback
once again to watch
a fat pigeon waddling gold bellied
sitting target in low sun
seen casually sidling along on the mossy ridge pipe
crow dappling asbestos shed roof
Harry Billings claims his folks came over with the Normans
Sappers & Wallers proud pall bearers
incubating Foot & Mouth
Sea born diseases coughs & wheezes
never eases offshore breezes
Short term memories contemplate
longshore rift waves bugling
after damp latrine onslaught
Welcome backs Harry Billings
Who advises keep your head down–don’t show willing
while being swallowed by a scarlet sofa
On the Russian convoys
rapt in the brazen squalor
Flies the Flag for an old tomorrow
Ver sur Mer Bayeaux
Whose that wanker talking bollocks
fabled nephew of General Jorrocks
The greatest generation fades
away again in the rising sun
and contemplates a wet wipe

End of rush hour– Ham & Jam
Ham & Jam & Ham & Jam
high ground glider lands on ridge
commanding view of bridge
Naga boosts morale
like Missus Fezziwig’s
rum punch. Groovy truth
reveals a kneecap. Hides the vial under a stole
Shrugs it off like Garbo
underlit by candlelight
muted dialogics forestall
the bringing on of the empty horses
to soil a classy bone heap marbled digging hor d’oeuvres
for Sophie not the Sofa plaintive screech of bagpipes
breach the Geneva Convention
Ghosts of Hawkins Gregson Laughton Mills
Mackeson Man Guinness Miles
turn round in their graves
brandish broken swords

had some grub changed clothes after a scrub with a swampy flannel
on the shower head a lopsides fedora hangs its occupant squats
piddling in the bidet roaming couplets constipate feckless grunts– constipation nation conservation nation commemoration nation (as nations trek for progress east) all lost at seaside complex simplicities. Stood out sorely sucking thumbs
distant sound of summer games over in the primary–houses Isis Embourne
Cherwell & another vie for supremacy. Missus Lee slices a fruity cake
hearing voices distant too on a fine summer day in ’62…a little imp peppers
passers by with pebbles pretending invisible in flimsy grass. Gets a slap on
the leg and kick up the arse for acting out a comic fantasy. Specious agent
breaks down and out with a rash in nettlebed awash with ash. Soon the holidays
and games in the cratered road. Tea with the Coopers sizing up their gold.
Clip round the ear from Daddy eyebrows. Mischievous little runt in rebellious trousers. Village heirarchies. Pure and Applied stuck up bastards with more than us. pity them flip out in rage gilded morons acting sage. Looking down their noses as i examine theirs. Much nasal hair. a dead giveaway of daemons. running away all day with imaginings. Corporal Tribe and his vested boozers. Rising Sunners never Working Man’s Barn. Officer’s Mess about till wee smalls. Betrayed by a gin the hollow grin teaches me an empty spirit. Never give yourself away to strangers.
Play it doggo. Walkaway.

Not what happened never is. Never was. Orwillbe…sure there’s scars. Bad vibes
born of bellygas. Cheese and Onion tongue wash. Citrine salvos hoist petards
high into vaulted gob. Always scribbled on. Palimpsestic tendencies. Something
in the water. Mackerel tins and tea leaves. Ashes always rusty red. Firebricks need putty.
Chimney sweeps. Maintenance. Pressing matters. Mustn’t crumble altogether. Hostile
sullen atmosphere picked up on yappy radar. Aggressive passivity lurks in shady nooks
hot under scratchy starch collar. Spoiling for impromptu uproar. Kicking over traces.
Winding up the teatime clock.

Pigs in clover
War is over
Cliffs of Dover
Supernova…

brevity is the soul of what
you are alluding to:

Rusted mackerel tins
erupt tea dreg magma
Something in the water
putting in a sock

Mustn’t grumble altogether
Winding up soft tea time clocks
Hot under starchy cover
Addressing pressing matters

late visitor come end of day avoiding chocolate dog goes ape at well known soldier bird
on wire min afire roaming couplet hunt in packs
too the beet of druids fiat groudwell clumpings interrupt the corny flow
whether witter on we now…ambleside commodious
sounds larrup cringeworthy gentry sow. Are parked broad upon the chair/
Contempt beneath her gaze. Looks up and sees a buttercup
tremble under weight busy besom sweeping up the kard crud.
Not! Pleads suppliant be=uttercup falling on god petals.
Careful with the bristles

fences lust for empty vistas
fears proliferate
only land is finite
gravity a bummer
ups and downs a premium
…halt a blissful pause

Machine Gunner raps to a halt
automatic writers run out of ammo
Lamentable delays waste time to kill
Never blame the rain again
All it makes you feel is wet
uncomfortably exposes

fences lust for empty vistas
fears disintegrate
only man is finite
runner beans love summer
climbers come and go
…halt a blissful pause

Nature is subtle as is a brick
offended by brute ignorance
and callous disregard for the finer things
we drew lots to decided who gets
the juiciest cut…

Stage frit in crowded void
must be some way out of there
onlookers ponder…
avoid at all costs you jest
lingua francophiliacs
hide behind allusions
miming water drips
Pass round the straw hat
you never know your luck
making up you mind to comply with routine habits
is time consuming.

Deterred predictable visit to the Museum of Modern Angst with words like tedium petulance and spite.
Much prefer going out somewhere real.
Real! That soon did the trick. Could just get in the car and go nowhere. Read some barbed in crowd review dropping names i never heard
of movements an attitudes beyond my wildest. Should !? Americans prefer the player to the ball. Heads full of heriones. Yanks. Bleargh!
The twang makes my teeth itch.

yet i rely on their media for stuff. therein lies The Rub a Dub. Gawping at screens. Entertained or in search of…acknowledgement
for specialness. Peerlessly reviewed by algorithms & bots! Whatever…eh? Gets you proper down it does. Mostimes that is…

but this is it material concrete fact inscribed in aetherized editions cut down to the bitterquick by chisellers…bitter? twisted?
when a wince freezes out an ill wind–susceptible off kilter skewed. Some say queegueg quite deranged. Comparisons are a dubious
endeavour: like whittling without instant recall. All is memory.

not going on right (pinballed through eyestrain migraine–The Wall for long distance nerdies) Hero. Lord Dan Snow plays tanksin
Normandy…Saturday teatime: coffee & chocolate bar. Snooze to follow…

Letter to The Editor
What happened since I read or spoke you asked and I am unable to reply even to begin to start…
It seems I do nothing else but shit and eat between long swathes of inertia and writhing
in a blissless void of ennui confounded by lack of joy at the corrosion of Parliamentary
Democracy.
Without adopting some social persona I am no one but this.
A Nothing much sat on the edge of an inflatable mattress a purple headpiece wire hanging down
entangled in ratstail strands of hair uncut for five years incompletely bald sporting
a smashed up Panama hat. Strides recycled from fifties deckchair fabric.
I am warm.
There is no bread.
I have tobacco and exotic spices.
I am in Morocco dipping okra in tahini who doesn’t seem to mind so far…

As for Caitlin my first thought was that your daughter had made a documentary.
Silly how true rumours catch fire in the squalid gutterbrains of vacant lots.
Enter a sombre sheepish Dylan Toerag proffering gaudy bagels from the west coast of Dystopia.
How were things in Guacamole I asked in passing rage.
Passable he quipped.
He pauses thinking future quotables.
On the Hole. He adds…waspish, wispish, moorish…
Second though was seen it on his one hundreth birthday knees up
and in clips scavenged by sluttish ingenues to
feed and foster the awesome Dylan death trip trope.

As an anecdotalist bereft of scruple it is fitting here to mench John Cooper Clarke’s
farewell to a crowd in Hysteric Laugharne with these exacted words:
‘Do not go mental & with that
Goodnight.’
Exits to sound of tittering tafia and the gentle click of wineflutes…
Needless to say I was not there.
I was here.
Here where I see no one, hear from no one, am no one
but dark strangulated
rumours of excess and callous matricide.
Sick & Tired, registered disabled with the granite shitty state.
Am I to argue?
They got me stitched up like a kipper.
Broken on the Weald.
Napoleon Blownaparte on Elbow
resting on a seasoned chocolate log.
Dribbling processed pasties…

Onset Old Timers convinces me that I should join the Old Fart’s Club of ludic whingebags.
My application is bound to be rejected in the grounds of gross moral rectitude.
Repulsion is such lovely stuff. A free rein indeed from heave-ho granted!
Riding off into the dusk derided and scored by hangers on
who at least had the grace to pelt me with fresh fruit.mert crumble: mustn’t crumble…too late the bread is flown I hear.

This sham is going nowhere. I gape in awe on an eruptive obsidian toe and ponder outboard motors amputation and Fred Titmus’ arm ball.
09:19 10/06/2019
Yesterday an outing ot the Butt Inn via canal bench absorption of the outside scape. Walkers and riders a swan or two
a stickless amble on the manicured bank…the rest was bars and rissoles, incensed khazis, prickly lassitude. Escaped with
my loaf intact, partook me of five jars. Rich and fair to middling scum proliferate this wood’s neck. Anger seethes in
chainstore car parks fit for scrap metal traders

up since five watching catch-up: cricket, Jack the Lass, blogpomes…at least i got out for a while.
Lost a game (dreadful error)
Flashing lighets, shades & summer glare,
Rattled after the outing hither and dither preoccupied with mobility. Empties cavity. Pink coral in the shallows. Lost brainless chess
romp. Crap on telly. Delta Blue rinsed candies talking toilets. I say! Wattashowah. Life aint fair human misery underwear just dripping
on the line. Eyestrain for screegawk. Cader Idris on my mind. Gentle thrill of solifluxion. Ooot in the dreke! No way Lao Tse…sty in putt
as i flows puer from the tap. Love is likka faucet. Bonjour l’eau! Wimbledon cometh…Season of Raccoons & Racquettes.

Crap lepidoptourist pins Flower to mas. After capture file the under pending. Ideas. Cheap as Hips. Bloooze in da Nite. Hat and growler. Chicago bites.
Paul Goodman et al (Jolson)…Thatcher constipated dead sleep after Noosenoot postponed by late night opiate pinball bad guts toe sting
spicey turkey tangy sauce hard baked potatoes supply the fall guy half tomatoed…

10:01 11/06/2019
Next day so far recap: Tory hogwash booms aweigh. Killing Eve wallpaper muzak. Funny faces sex and death. Bogbrush in your face
you jerk. Old lady makes her getaway. Nighties stumble down suburban streets…Time to make a killing…Care. When I was a youth
a poster on the wall read ‘Support Mental Health or I’ll Kill You’ which in the mid seventies was considered kind of funny. Post Monty
Prepunks Derek & Cliving, ducking and diving conniving a ruse for a feed of booze…all the emotions and attendant notions acted out
Needy stranglers come to town lynch mob townsfolk gather round. All stand trial by ordeal. Cavorting the wood from the chaff.
the ship from the raft the sane from the daft the fore from the aft…gorblimey! There is work to do cutout. Automatic trifler. Rocooky.
Care with the Dresden China. Too late for split milk. Majolica hits Linoleum. Old man goes ballistic on his bamboo throne. Running and hiding. Game.
Harbour hate for rich old whites.
Brief disgraceful pinball halted by bangs perhaps downstairs.Go look. No stirs of evidence of. Traces tell tale knockings over spillages
or body oozing red…radio off/ tv off. Last night whilst pinballing opiate considered prospects for today. Self refilling prophets see
all they want and leave licking open wounds…

Care. On the telly. the assessment game. Thorough fare apportioning up dividing what’s left over in the kitty after chocolate hob nobs
& whopee cushions for the hard of hearing is divvvied up?

No we aint no bananas. outstinct & instinct…wherefrom. Villanelle that flitty imp!
Hungry caterpillar eats you up from inside cabbage leaf. Hairy fairy quite contra hairy. Grass no greener over see.
Under the scone all the same. Jammy & Creamy observed idiot dancing on shifting sands. Dear relatives look in in bronze
as far as the pair of ye ken sea

Ripple effect doplers iris squints shady crooks and nannies…wet succlulents relentlessly drip. Looks like in. For the week.
Soggy nature roosters rule. All so uppers & downers. Life of Late. Whirligiggles. Fast foot forward. Quick quick slowmo;
rhymeless reasons crippled seasons. Who the hoopla gives a…monkey’s cuss? Why a monkey silly. What a howler there yo dropped.
Losing your hedge. Snidies winged moi. Achilles hole. Ever widening gulf twixt skinlands. Continental Rift. Drift like a bitterfly & shun
like a fee…

Neater in paras. otherwise get it. Kick up the Jacksy the Rippersee. Ooo eye do like 2B beside the seize hide…quit while you’re behind.
She got fat. End of. Snap. Cricklewood Pop. Orpington man on a train. On the streets and coffee grounds. In the sky. In the sea. In the hair..
you are enshrouded. Come out hands up arms down on the decking prostrate…
wind flicks bird leaf flits mistook larch for ash remission ticked off probed bated orificed banged up fair cop so anxieties to frame…
all in all allover all…skating surface tensions. Fears of…falling rising drowning sinking breathless deep below omphalos crossply tyres fold
over. Fold over. one fold over & other cried out ‘folderol!’ Fffffff…

With that off my chest. Augustus John painted Eccles from head to foot in whitewash al Fresco

Infiltration

-No Shangrila this kip,said Dick, breaking free from a limpid handshake. Read the memo proper next time Dick, he scrawled -- deffo reckon big time paint licks overdue. Under this a twisted smiley and a middling bad enigma, which went so: 
 --Having so far dunnaway with despots, teapots, bankrots and sundry candelabra what is there left? Onwatched pseudo-sanguine lookers duck
eyes as all pulled off on platform four, waving one handed on like bandits which just goes to show how many hands it takes to make light work of short shrift errors in comprehension: 
ignoble savage tones guaranteed by inky dental nasal spike 
thrust through roman snout most likely outcome: stiff upper 
lip & mispronounced limp due to legacy lisp censured all
sycophants
...
Scared to come out fighting, Sibyl (Missy Flower to you) 
sprayed the assembled dryads in lick spittle number five 
shattering dreams of turgid tomtits fluttering on the brink
 of bliss, rendernthe encircling syrup spread in sundry comely
 clouds to conceal the sweet spot from their lechery. 
Dimples, she called them and with cute eyes acclimatized 
they were found slightly over, barely noticeable in the 
overload of diversions to hand
This was but the half of it. 
Dick had forwarded a copy to Professor Clive. Time was of the essence. 
Ticking clock ticked on
...
While to some this all smelt trivial, Dick and Sibyl 
sat deep in do they don't they hunched. Dropping it they concurred would
 prove the venture futile thus negating the ideal of peaceable human 
co-existence. This was all in all the easy option. Slimming however.
With an unstated aim of swimming & slimming was a plausible kettle of fish. The least resistant line between three 
points felt warped. Never put the sky before the cloud 
like Grandma did. 
...
So said sound rainbow thoughts as they shared solace sniffing 
snuff & sicking it up after singeing sensible capillaries. 
Corpals cringe, snot jets splay each given situ. Sir Sneering-Fitt
guffawed as pollen powder peppered sable coats velvet sows ear silk 
purse proved the acme. Hay Fever Hoover Harries Hairy Floor, as legend would read. All hail Ma-Lennonism, vinyl vagrants holler: 'Look no-no nappyhands' as they parry a prime cut of shit on a stick. 

...
Elsewhere simultaneous like it was no vest for the hopefuls rehearsing the five finger flitch on an altar candle. Dai broken pencil stonemason fladged him off good over it. What was he playing at, 
East  Church mice, west microvole and sable shrew
chip away off the old block.
~
Skid lightly like an anaconda on ice about the frozen shoulder eschew engrossment in task before it starts. Greening windows squashing locks into a vagrant beenie,smoking daisy chains undying like the sea. Henpecked on Sea, flossing candy over as if it never happened. Let that be not for me pledged the wain thinking butterfly net. Spouting jibber jabber on a longshore lodestar. once again forever sat.
Paranormal shootists only purchase one way tickets to Tombstone, dark thoughts on gravy afternoons inside the whale. She who would valiant be let her go dither. As if it was in your gift. Hugh bristled. walking off muttering inanities. to the shed. Family and other cranials forged in the  furnace of bosses. Divide it up how you like. I said. Never heard another word. One way trippers. They like it just the way it is. 

Wilmslow Leisure Centre failed to live up to expectations. Nothing changes. Six months.Smoke goes down. want to but..block invisible block vanish feel the pace. get inside. sweat it off.
Press up...

Tobias Lundyford; vendor of snuff & truffles 
 Since 1666
 to discerning snouts 
 denizens of Snoot & Toot, 
 cognoscenti of 
 The Blessed Durante
 So read the  legend on the swinging verbose ensign 
 Shit rained down in stair rods
 one frightful April afternoon. 
 No worries: shit happens,  
 resigned indoors, just 
 go about your business, 
 merrily &  frugally
 as appropriate to 
 presenting circumstances—
 keep one aware eye out for
 the main chance to flee
 as luck must have it
 ~
 The inner tube got flimsy, 
 puffy pink, cheap as chastity, 
 spiced up since Swithin’s 
 cruel orange snow fell sliced. 
 Do not forget the onion 
 soup recipe for
 Mulligatawny  
 The long postponed reunion 
 with the gruesome 
 Toussaint. 
 Small encounter groups collude 
 Congeal, more like it…
 Turn the sausages down
 post haste
 risk marginal jeopardy. 
 ~
 Eerie Syncopation vibes. 
 GPS was not quite what 
 it was cracked up to be. 
 There was a wasp. 
 Spring had sprung. 
 The hard work 
 had just 
 begun…
 ~
 standing outside now, looking up to smile, proof reading a Reparation Tragedy, Daniel winced at the smell of posies, wretched at the stench of posy & vomited at the sight of his beloved being thrown on the fetch cart. Her wasted cadaver unsellable. Even for glue…
 ~
 supply, you see, first outstripped, 
 then, instantly
 swamped demand, 
 subsequently 
 the value of plump duchesses had fallen 
 ten percent on the Bourse.
 ~
 Daniel chews a robust crust and dabd the corners of his mouth    
 Erasing sour musty titbits
 Experiencing, as he so often did,
 A wistful euphoria
 Involuntary bursts of town gas
 Release enraged blue tulips 
 Hope controls the Plunderworld
 ~
 Open an outside window
 Collapse in the street
 Subcutaneous mites
 Keep observers keen
 To soft abstraction 
 News stand plastic rosebuds
 Wilt in microwaves 
 Cute pot walloping villains
 Snigger over cauldrons
 Tyros Cackle and crackle,
 Sticks glow in a fire
 Hiccup and hackle  
 Wafts come suddenly
 Warm bread rests its 
 Weary farls
 ~
 Getting pretty for
 Mistah Mulligatawny 
 My fave
 By a country mile
 Thus finally banishing
 Foul Smell of bland dyspepsia
 Back into the sod all of Om
 Watching Destry Ride Again
 Crossroads up ahead
 Places where old roads meet new
 Sunshine and shadow
 Field stream dream meadow willow
 Warm bag of scented oatmeal
 Soothes as April shivers us…
 ~
 Stringless vivacious
 kites circle come dusk
 Over swaying eucalyptus
 Airwaves collude midstream 
 Raucous flaxen haired
 Scent of strange foreboding
 Scuffing up kerbless sidewalks
 Licking over sick traces
 Bitter lemon peel
 Ginless in Mancunia
 Spiceless in Utopia
 Piteous hubris
 Not a pot to piss in
 Squatting in the street
 Relief is to hand

’16 Remembered…

Lent 2016…

T
hursday, 11 February 2016
Hand forced to start anew. Gumboot full, kept crashing, old stuff morphed with new nonsense, same old games etc. Feels like spring; swept path; walking about, climbing stairs, carrying cups…beware the old toddler. Been off the sauce now since Jan fourth; vaping and puffing; cleaning up the act. Spent a month in retreat, sleeping and chilling (January’s a good month for chilling).

Four o’clock. End of sunshine, slow grey blanket creeping from the west. Van found in a blue place- No plan B. no frills place, 2102, saved in (Valentine?). How many journals since…4, 5, 6.

Five now, dusk and hungry, anxious forbearance, stiff upper quiff, pull the drapes across Toddlerama…write a folk song to Gumboot & the Rest , the nursery slops, the practice grounds, the nets of experience.

F
riday, February 12, 2016
Old Tim’s car house is gone. Pulled down before it blew down.
Showered, had a word in the good ear. Sun’s out. Time for constitutional wander…pottered and hurt. Easy to get ahead of yourself, all took easy. Took the full gamut of prescription drugs. Went back to slow, concentrated actions, tortoise and hare, carpet and stare. Smoked two fags. Mondegreens and colly, wiki for the day. Cognitive dissonances. All is forgotten, Ian Macmillan (Bard of Barnsley) radio play on at 2.15, trainspotters speaking in forked verse forms. Pass the time. Avoid Gardeners Questions at all costs following the polluted scrub outside. Chill out: chill in. Luncheon is served…

Luncheon dispatched, slow ruminations, tired daffodils, limp trees, they know what’s on the way. May Jong and digest lamb till four accompanied by classical ivory twinkling, flashing builder’s wagon, and refreshing vape. Now go wash them there hands, dirty from idling. Conclusion: slow day after yesterday’s romps.

Avoided outburst of nix black hole – pat on back for that; remarkable powers of self-constraint are to be applauded occasionally, let the bad waves wash over you. The tide will always ebb and flow. Many a good sailor has been lured onto those grotesque rocks.

Those hands! What a state! Trying to type proper; asdfjkl; skewed up, screwed up, wrecked. Only fit for slow twisted cheating hits. The right wrist like a dry gear change, a crooked crank, the third finger always hiding. Can’t cry about it, just grimace, twisted wry pun. Sculpt a cult.

S
aturday, February 13, 2016
Rise up to the shipping rune, take a walk to dumpy land and try to fix the names of plastic smelly products for future reference. Forget. Downstairs the bad weather stirs the ovoid shrub, ruffles the hen feathers, and startles the colley birds from slumbering disrepair. A man in a silver van services her next door, putting a spring in her step lively dance. Then, while heading off into word world, bemoaning my lot, listening to the Doors, my cousin calls and lifts my gloom. A great move, Esmerelda! Rugger’s on, food’s ready, more later, must go…

S
unday, February 14, 2016
Stayed up late (3.30am)! Arose at at eight – seven hours sleep in twelve. Stretches with Ned and warm corn-bags; charged up the vapes (refills!); watched footie & Marr making plans (shower, scribbles –not blog, the week ahead (the weaker head), Danny Boy, Health & Exercise…). Called Jules and spoke fuck all at length about…mah Jong! Mutual human engagement ring…
Midday
Girls on phones…go upstairs for some time.

M
onday, February 15, 2016
Late afternoon sun
Cloudless icy canopy
Minus zero with limits
Set at close to seven.
Corn bags & mittens
Become favoured things
Turn it up to 23
Shut the shithouse door
Dogs already stuck to trees…

Yeah, a proper cold snap:
bold cold ribald high hanging
lurking skulking awaiting
shaking with anticipation
on a stark arctic blast
when the chill factory dudes
finally fully fulfill
their much vaunted promissory
note to turn up the
air conditioner
according to the season…
sooner or later
it boils down to what
the fucking weather’s doing
or going to get up to
do you follow me?

8.49
Miss
those
Dear Old
Dead Popes
L o v e
L e t t e r s…
(Preg
nant
Pause)
Did you
?
& So
did I
!
Amen

T
uesday, February 16, 2016
Overdid the stretching – right side pull, agony turning and getting up in the night for wee-wees. The cold does not help. Slow rhythmic scraper glimpsed through thin whitened privet. Four posts yesterday. How to make Podcasts? Shower day. Baxi before the 25th, best this week you putter offer. Take all pills soon. Sausages need cooking up. Tabasco, spring onions, tomatoes, olives…yum-yums! Half healthy, eat main meal before ten thirty, fatso!

Send begging letters/texts/e-mails to famous writers…publish the replies. Inspired to my soul brother Ian McMillan who must have a few bob spare as well as a heart of pure gold – it could be good (wait for it)…fun!
Mmmm
A swift alteration to the projected diary is most needed. The renaissance review can wait. Put it on hold till this stream runs dry. As for the rest…nothing urgent. Too cold to go out, plenty of food. Urge to crap has abated since the medication. Yea, let’s go…Aargh!

Saved by the phone from writing. There is a god and it is an angel to talk something over, we spoke of bad friends and black holes and then mulled over the notion of using her as my agent (10%?) for the ruse, spoof, skank or con (is not all art a confidence trick in one way or another? […too profound: Head]). Whatever, depending on your point of view about satire; after all, they are only begging letters after all (is not all begging a request for sponsorship [watch out for the legal shit: Head]). Must tell Henry about this, he’ll be on his own now that Flo is translating German ads for cut price supermarkets in her sleep.
Blimey! Eleven thirty three and still no sausages: best put the oven on. Baxi, shower, and renaissance can wait…nearly forgot about the imaginary group of writer, publisher, reader at table, screen, and in front of the telly. Therapeutic group of sorts – something is changing. Jules gave me a begsite to check out. Checking it out…
Midday
Six sausages, three streaky rashers; placed in shy oven for half an hour. It will not complain. What is it does? Rasher rolls first, Tabasco sausage wallets to follow, plenty of jungle, baby tomatoes, and scallions…

Prized frazzled bacon
Eighty per cent carbonized
Off wrecked baking tray
Tabasco sausage pitta pouched
Fractal endive rainforest
Two toddler sized tomatoes
Windfall scallions
Slithered thinly scattered
In your dreams Fatso

Ten minutes before Tuesday Angelus, event horizon lithesome candle dancer rushing dark tourquoise smoke clouds hurrying home. Fresh bed linen: fresh anointed pelt. Here comes tonight!

W
ednesday, February 17, 2016
Ate mega-fry-up – glorious repast of bacon, tomatoes, sausage, eggs, spinach and pitta; tinged with Tabasco & cut through with caramelized spring onion slices – first fried eggs in yonks. Wow! The rest of the morning is in the notebook. Suffice it to say ten was the new seven after a far too early dump alarum. Did not stay up this time – feel the better for it. It rains, there’s the kybosh on my constitutional. First come the cold, now comes the wet; ergo, there will be sleet…another day in.
What’s to do apart from boring sensibles?
Have a real fag and work it out.

N
ow
just go
comp
ose
yoursleeves
T
akefif
teenminutes
You must do
nothing
E
lseinsteado
fthis
F
Or
Fiff
T e e n
Minuets

Two. Back nose to grinstone. Gormenghastly afternoon whether. Juss posted that up there. We shall see shall we; obscure obscurity sought. Me no care no more. Hotter than july. Rolling unseen static ball. Juicy fruity funk. Paint acropolis gaudy.

Backnose to grinstone
make acropolis homely

Me no care no more
Gormanghostly afternoon
Smoothing unseen static globe

Ate superb chicken superb with roasties and leek after another empty above and empty above sums up my headspace just now. A day of extreme lethargy and phantasmagoria leaves. Want for no more of last night’s dream moods. Listened to some poetry recordings. There’s loads more but…

T
hursday, February 18, 2016

after last night’s ugly, jarring, clunky sleeps spent oscillating, upheaved groaning galleons, grinding down the dog watch, bulwarks taut and strained from obtuse wretched wuthering, canvas scruffed, ragged and torn, You stumbles lopsided into Port Said.
Here toll has took liberties shoreside; moody crews, mean lightning strikes and callous laxity leave forlorn stacks of unkempt scrap, a shambles of greedy endeavour, obesity, and obsolescence. Music plays on the rasping Tannoy. Rossini: William Tell Overture, too busy and too vibrant, discords with the far as the eye long trash pile strewn along the quay, grotesqued by optimistic fatuous golden sun.

Tai chi & robust shower’ll do the trick when You musters up the gumption & guts: another coffee, mayhap a cheroot before the poop.

Some place some time later…

You rested up to some class music, worked the shoulders, let go the neck, picked flaws in the ceiling sky, thought big thoughts, charted current position by moon and stars, longitude and latitude, polished the convex compass glass, read back through the log book, looking for clues…

To you it seems the keeper
of these records is withdrawn
from modern society
cigarettes & alcohol
latitude & longitude
wily old seadog
music & chocolate
immaculate taste

Friday, February 19, 2016
Old MacMillan had a farm musings by the drafty front window scribbling morning dribbles down in the mutant notebook. Came over here for some warmth: Ben Franklin on the radio, last few days before he heads back stateside. The stoney, gouted phase of middle life. The Stamp Act set the ball rolling…

You can see them most days
catching invisible aphids
seeds of ideas
by the drafty front window
scribbling down morning dribbles
that mutant notebook
in training for butterflies
to take home and impale on a pin,
to mount for display purposes
to show fellow aficionados
practitioners of
the dark art of tractor driving

calling occupants
interplanetary crap
mondegreenery abounds
swallowing everything
people flee to hide in cities

Benny Bandito
shit ye not upon my faith
jumped up latin punk
you will live to regret this
when the boys pay you a call
looks like that nailed down
the floating catholic vote
in time for Easter

Yes, slipping back into the old blogging ways: it’s so easy to do.
It scratches an itch. Life is a contact sport after all.
It took a walk to the shed – it’s nice out there, It thought!
So you’ve chopped up Brussels and garlic, couple of rashers, bubble and squeak: Bung an egg on it?
And why not, live a little why don’t you?
They won’t be home for Sam’s macaroons at this rate. The French don’t care, they eat all the time anyway.
What a fuss about nothing, Sam muttered under her breath, which smelt of saffron and sloe gin. Tea was ruined. It was tractor time.

Ate the bubbly squeaky thing,
very nice, very nice;
good zing of tabasco.
Off up – hour to shower.
Over cloud has come, deters one from outings to the garden or…beyond.
Timber shivers!
Defiant glimpse or whole new phase?
Someone prancing on your grave?
(the Sea of Tranquility?)
Your gas is as good as mine.
Either way just time killing.
Lumber up limbo down.
From the showering, the wishing well, the secret agent, the fruit salad,
the revelation of the pending albatross egg, the lamb and spinach dinner forecast,
to here:
four o’clock on Friday afternoon,
still deal or no deals on the box.

S
aturday, February 20, 2016
The village at the foot of the sordid mountain was drenched and overcrowded when you crave a toilet. Everywhere you were plausibly directed was no go. Some were faulty and others vile . When you finally found one that seemed acceptable it was blocked with a plate of cottage pie and baked beans. The situation was useless so you woke up.
The urge to climb the mountain remained. You know there was an acceptable place somewhere. Full of fear of falling you made the stars, dropped your kecks and sat, heart beats howling. Nothing came. You resisted the surge to strain and did some shortcut yoga. You peed.
It was a grey morning on top of the mountain. Nothing stirred. Soon it would be time get off the pot, you observe. Make another attempt on the summit later and take your chances in the valley below later?
Despite the mélange there is hot drinks and entertainment. Not like up here. Another fruitless summit, you conclude. You washing your hands in the eco sink provided.
The way back down is made perilous by your frustration– so careful toddler it was. The rails were awkward. There was clutter to the right but no matter, you were used to it by now. The village was empty. Just the way you had left it in the middle of the night.
You removed the pineapple top, put the last slab of marble cake on a crumby violet plate and stuck the kettle on. Your back is old with agony. Take some pills. That was why you came here.
*
Not like last Saturday’s vibrancy at all,
just the opposite save whellchaired,
your safety net of sorts they say.
No lift up no more.

Thai chi means less jerks.
Cut down on profiteroles
Then things will flow like clockwork
Big soft creamy clocks.
Languid tocks like off white ice cream
slopes
Sludgy guana balaclava slipping down bare cheeks
No rifting away off now
…break.
*
Soup and sandwiches, fish pies, greens, little slice, making weather heavy going– Kenneth Williams, Steptoe, Goons, soothing the hard of hearing in rest rooms throughout a sleepy land.
There are stirrings in the valley below.
Bark!
Car door.
Back door.
Mumblegrunt.
Doggytalks.
Suck hard through your vaper butt. Dummy cigarette deployed. Poor Mummy’s cinque holy portals. Refrain: ‘Nicotine, o nicotine…Nelly Deane, Clementine, o My Darlin’.
The Eagle has landed!
*
See what happens when you don’t force it? Did not soak your hands this morning did you? No, I was mountaineering; washed them at the summit, though, in that poxy basin in the corner.
Good lad. Good lad. Good lad.
*
Much tongued Polly Glott, Rambling Sid Rumpo et al lang scythe …them gold old doze of steamroller radio. And cast off seasoned flim flam: Tausends of ‘em whistling down the boulevards, assaying sunken suburbs, wonderstruck by wotsits. Here comes everyone else, dark crypto Mata Harrises in window brushing suedes, looping limply lupins, gurgling in fen khazis. Struth! The Flambards are coming over the knoll. Jute jawed odd births in peachy breaches, pantaloony clerics all called Derek ‘Dinky’ Dawkins & Daisy Dogend-Ash.
*
Whiff Up
And they’re off! No more wine, cheese, or mercedes bends. How does one stand on Europa? Why Sir, One simply does not. What about Boris Billboard, the spiders from Marx, the Thane of Mordor?
Positive up beat or negative downbeat, the yinnies and the yannies yomp it out; slinging, flinging, clear as mud. Politics and personalities, in out in out shake it all about. You decide. Daddy & Mutter Bread and Butter – the moist limp portent incision of your hives.
How clean was Myfanwy?
*
Suddenly stopped stuck
Wonderstricken whizzbangs
Gurgle in khazis
Daddy mutters bread & butter
Moist limp portent
Incision of your Hivetime
In out in out shake
It all about in and out
What about Boris?
We’ll do what he Don’t

How clean was my Galley?

As they have their lunch
The Prisoner of Haiku
Makes it through the wall

No minister
was available
to participate
in the witness protection
Programme.
Fish fled for the coast
Mendacity stalked the land
Britain should leave Britain

S
unday, February 21, 2016
Note the date Baximan – British Gas £10 per month. D/w leaks. Mild & windy seven thirty, over the rough spell. Let’s rock. Boris is agonizing, Jed is dead, warm westerlies blow in, sweeping all before…
always criticise
what you don’t understand
pull the other one
no minister was willing
witness protection programme…

windblown hyperactive sloth arse on fire side armchair hooligan rampages dubris gunslinger zaps anathema for kicks pricks conch shell senses press of a button fad gagdgetry…material for today.

d/washer hums its farewell. Bacon, sausage & egg on the go donned neoprene mittens engulfed in swaddlesome gigantic red jumper computer problem faces reality inbuilt obsolescences go werglefloopy brunchtime dinner brunchdin/dinbrunch you must decide for yourselves. Whatta tiswas. Noon takes over now. Midday moments. Dishwasher vigil hairy touch and go…see notes on table.

Know something about
everything know everything
about something else

a book of hours
made up of poems sent you
on the hour every
hour through night and day
for as long as forever is
your eternal gif

Grimbeau’s recent output
exhibits a fatalistic resignation
to stifling confinement.
There is no let up here;
plaintive drones and wails
fill the listener
leaving desired dark despair,
callously wondering
how long this parlous
state can be sustained.
For here is the very nub…
Suspense!
When will the cookie crumble?
Where will the mountain tumble?
Bleak verse for bleak times?
Were it not always
Thus with them scribblers
fallen foul of very life itself?
Methinks he ought out some more
perchance evermore.
Now, now Nigel!
That’s a bit harsh, old bean

(seenotebook) for scatlang.
Saul’s going downtown
dragging along on a dead donkey
just for company.
Automatic poetry
taxman sees light on the road
to Damascus Town.
Rumi’s my roomy.
Spends most days whirling
dervs like petrol pumps
around the garage forecourt.
Does not give a damn
about CCTV cameras.
Fifteen minutes fun for all
Lay down corrupted tendons
listen to La Mer
duly fatalistic thoughts.
Bad day for good light.
Coming up to three Sunday afternoon. Critical mass turbulation over decision of a lunchtime. Let it go Uncle Hilda. Boris is out guiding light. Gawd help us and save us a fate worse than dearth. Doom. Gloom. Fishpond, Tennessee – few are jokin in Hoboken now the old queen’s dead. Yeah, now you see, now you believe me. I cover the waterfont. Read my lapse…
In my mounting droolery,
sate with mild tomfoolery…
Wight a weview wodga.
Whiter wier view mirabelle.
Priory of a Ratman.
Ruritanical hodhouse

M
onday, February 22, 2016
Up & dumped by seven thirty, dog emptied, blinds pulled, light admitted, two coffees, much toddling round the house. A new week: British Gas, sickly dishwasher, ablutions…then?

Walkies & exercises, garden mysteries, calls to significant udders, radio & tv catchup: Kipling, Panthers, poetry progs…

pause for thought police
live your life like winkle brown
as free as a bird
can be in an aviary
clip your fungal eyebrows
stop seeking shortcuts
convenient apps
bend no gas street lamps

trimmed bear and eyebrows ever whiter aftermath slipping into daily dross scattering clippings – shit ten already. The senator is missing presumed brown bread. Opposite curtains disarrayed, half pulled or half closed, hurried departure, drowsy arrival, late for work again. Great mundane swathes of hours empty ocean beds drained reveal familiar geology strewn with dead fish mermaid kraken shipwrecks and small yellow plastic ducks tangled up in kelp love oceans run dry look like this.

R3 on – is it Sam Mendez? No Macmillan & Macmillan this week. It’s a new week all week long or short. This insufferable plod is a drag. Endure bedraggled retreat from Tesco sheer humiliation & hardship putting one foot in front of the other moment by moment & step by step – go take a walk in the woods Winkle. Butter some parsnips.

Up stars room cold noises
fear of flying darky day padstow dragdocs, you guzunda up the heatswitcher, rasher goblet intaken. Wait on warm the upagain. The dragnet drags…
Noon
Hello I must be leaving now! Above to purer freer realms away from filthy galleys to shower & sulk in muck.
Sullen monkey
full of junk
snagged a mantrap poaching
scotcheggs once again…2.26 blue sky, swollen right foot. Put it up. GI Slowcoach off parade rises again, makes minor adjustments to his billet, does a wee plop above, and returns majestically to Brahms unripe cherry symphony. Soon the PM will rise to undress the nation of their vestiges, leaving the naked, cast off, abandoned and prone to the horror of brutal spring gales…

T
uesday, February 23, 2016
Note that date Baximan!
You got one day of boiler cover left – sort it.
Nobby flies back today. Loud cheers and tobacco spits. The season begins. Virtual reality, tone deaf choirs, amygdala snap, and the caste system: wash up away radio. Water, water everywhere apart from Delhi for two weeks. Feel the copy roll from my fingertips. Intermittent surges tell me what to do and where to go with this. Turn out the lights and put in your earplugs.
A presentiment?
Red builder’s van moves slowly and disappears. Doors slam. You look and stuff is offloaded. Next door. Hammers bang and thuds invade. On with the earplugs: Miles Davis – Seven steps to Heaven fits the bill. Strong coffee and vape to hand: it begins…

You are a writer. Always remember that. You are a writer cos you ain’t mothing else: your unemployed, you don’t study anymore, you never leave the building, you just sit there day and night being a writer. You post nano-snippets on your obscure blog by pseudonym. You know it can be found. You know you can be found. This bothers you. What if someone commissioned you, offered some reward. After all these years – be careful what you wish for…

Fountaineering with Lester, sun went down behind across five ago, pennies from heaven…around teatime with the grimbeau two-step, syncopatin raspberry, do that coffee dude.

We rally and part on no terms sporting brave combative faces. Touché! Call me baldy fatty: Call me fatty baldy. Cutting thrusting barbs parried. End of round ninety-one. Order another bottle. Open up a vein.

Tardy rotten leaves
Constitutional garden
charting slow decay
post daily nano snippets
cut up & pasted clippings
after all these years
be careful what you wish for
you know where you live
never leave the building
just sit there all day and night
being a writer.

looking for my vape
Vaseline Machine Gun – Leo
Kotke plays some okey-cokey
gets me up whirly giggly
sitting on my vape.
Canned Heat play some Live Music.
Left the door open
better go and shut it.
In heaven nothing ever
happens just like this place
sucking on my vape

12.16
Whoosh. There goes another morning: earplugs, Sala, dishwasher limbo, curious builders, couple of dumps, couple of posts, loads of silly and chilly thoughts and feelings. A bowl of cold minestrone sloshing about the nutroast ganglia brainbox…lunchtime getting chillier so you up the heat, cut up a one day over reduced bacon and egg sandwich, make a coffee, warm a corn bag, look through the dis-grants sites, get muddled and a pain in your shoulder, blow out the sunlit candle, switch on the radio news. This is how it goes before you run out of steam and give up for another day. Call me Petula!

Lass peevish after chomp (in for the) duration (of) lamb’s tail shake (making murk again eye see): Telling bone tingles. Lever massage now: Ouchpain killers for Dicky Shoulder post haste reveal leaf. More hot corn bags – quick, quick, quick. Ahhh! Warmpain. Sit still, feel the goodnesses ooze.

2.23
R3 bothers you. Cut it off. Lingered waiting for the sun to come round the front, give it another fifteen this time of year; the hun commences baldy jibes – fight fuhrer with fuhrer. Dish washer palaver continues unabated…do you want to go out? Not with you. Scribbles & Toddles are the way forward. List of begging contacts found, write letters of ingratiation most humbly (there’s a challenge!). no more posts today, old hobbits die hard. Walk on…

3.22
Beg walk & scribble panhandle for a living turn a crippled buck…heart rending tale of down & deeper down. Tried paypal see what goes on. Even they won’t let me in! This ain’t going nowhere fast. Petulant beggars get short shrift. Go off in the low slung sun picking up natter irritation grows older the longer you wait. Successful wetbacks Offish Mexican hatstand got more legs than eggs. Pogue cohunes!
Some song & danceman mind you…

7.09
bold crippled beggar
scribbler at the end of day
some song & danceman
future fears meet wasted years
clashing in the startling sun
petulant beggars get short shrift
in my vast experience
your just a bloody nuisance
living off the fat of the land

W
ednesday, February 24, 2016
witch cold ditch
Half past six
Cosmic convulsions
Troubled overcrowded sleep
Early coffee house erupts
Advocating peaceful violence
Spills a lot less blood

Rigged racket run
amorphous hotel chain
paints ugly pictures
sunsets horses sort of stuff
half awake domestic pets
daffodils called Ben
The roof over this head
coated in hard frost.
Today another
Baximan strikes at nine armed
with bank details paying up for
peace of mind.
Protection shower day-
will it be obeyed?
Reading back reveals nothing.
Stop staring at me.

Posted.
Podcast plunder underway. Django Reinhardt & Mango Ausfahrt (his mixed up sister). Good choice, mon liege! Elephantine sycophant (Fat Creep) leaving snidey sighs behind your back (are you for serious?) don’t get me wrong or I’ll have your eye out mush. Pardonnez moi, Monsieur! He’d look better in a patch like that shirt ad Doing a favour really. Cunts.

Boiler sorted! Docs to follow. Service tomorrow pm. Put on Borges.
If there were a Nobel Prize for Nattering…sun is out, bright and clear, golden bin men do their bit for civilisation, braving the elements, confronting hidden horrors everyday. Heroes all. Cunts.

Ironic stories abound
Country sized varmints
Colonize America
Always keep your eyes peeled
Maintain a state of
Perpetual vigilance
The van is at the door
Hidden horrors everyday
We could be heroes
If they ever awarded
A Nobel Prize for Nattering
They’d be spoilt for choice
Send them to Coventry
To mull it over quiet

Two
Upstairs subject to lieder thirty minute masochism sunny afternoon out out damned wotsit sucker of floors. Sun gone again (just my luck): what the fuck – its afternoon time sports day.

Let’s get out and play…

on a clear moonless day
or on a bright sunny night
something somewhere shines
brighter than a button can
clearer than a sparkling twig
the world service drowns
most of it out unless
it shuts itself down
after seven hours

Let’s go out and play…

now the grown ups have left home
to earn a living
extracting sunshine essence
from cucumber sandwiches
making love not war
proving change is good as rest
living someone’s dream
always willing to oblige
social working your widow

T
hursday, February 25, 2016
Five before five today, groping for my chair, freezing by the microwave, warming up corn bags; giant slugs munch Adele, mistaken identity, shocked pound collapses, Siberian frost sings blues…retired hurting really bad, fuck me up before you go-go. Ginger showed up yesterday moaning about broken ribs. Gave him some concrete, anything to shut him up, it did not take long. Boiler check today twixt twelve and six: long drawn out affair. Twenty-two minutes to seven…

Forty seven minutes have passed. Stairs have been climbed, a slow crap and hand bath, a stealthy descent accomplished, cocodemol ingested, and slow kitchen duties undertaken to procure water and fresh coffee. All this in forty seven minutes plus a stream of notions and impressions too vast to try recording – going slow is good.

Randy prison? An asylum for sex crazed drug addicts? The screws confiscated their legal highs, a riot ensued. Rochdale, a child sex abuse cartel. Greece, purgatory for fugees, a warehouse for souls nobody knows what to do with. And a vote on european union to exercise the posh…they sacked Tony Blackburn as well. What goes on at the BBC?

Premeditated
spontaneity sucks
go put on some socks
screws confiscate legal highs
sex mad drug addicts riot
Greece is a warehouse for souls
Nobody knows what
to do at the BBC
Why not sack Tony Blackburn?
They did!

Nine plus twelve and that’s another one in the can. Time to ruminate now the bull’s been milked. Janet’s spouting as this happens, which of the names is not posthumous or gaoled? Beyond you remit, Janet? Leaked reports prove food for fudgery. Press versus law fiasco. Notion shall speak unto notion. More like under oceans of claptrap. Management must be seen to mismanage. This ain’t going nowhere. Ate dodgy hoisin duck wrap, thinly sliced tomatoes, and peeled cucumber slithers: not vomited so far.

Float the waves option
Name your own tsunami
Own your own ocean
Watch your private tide come in
Hire your favourite squall…

Tyke Air investments
Leaders in diversity
Exclusively posits its
Guaranteed lifelong benefits
for you and yours till
all the seas run dry
negative interest rates

writing spoof ads while
waiting for the phone to ring,
the door to knock,
a hot midday meal?

Why not carve yourself a walking stick?
This multipurpose
self-help tool is a must for the inept walker.

Where are you going today?
You asked a mantelpiece
Same old silent, vacant gaze into empty space.
Braindeath,
You infer.
No.
Signs of Respiration

3.16
still no lamb cutlets
forty days and nights of this
is taking the piss
you must have faith or you fall
another five minutes they say

4.34
Certificated by boring Mark lookalike called Phil; Viv playing rubbish; good square meal mooted; greaves of lass; too late to shower; never too late to shower when you got working legs…

Glad that page is out of the way. It was a struggle. A day that will go down in inflammatory petty nuisance: No rhyme or rhythm (like this dreadful album)

The rest remains a mystery…

F
riday, February 26, 2016
Wobbly pins today
Whacked out all night wall walker
Putting on sea legs
Walk like an Egyptian
Provides chronic ironic
Cerebral mantra
lends rhymer rhythm
on icy towpaths

To
be
Read
to an
Occasional
Musicalico
Accompanimento

(Prelude to a Thrush}
~
Ent
Re
Preneur
~
a
Miracle of Commerce
whistling
down the wind while willing
down the wisps,
the whoosh of whiplash,
welting warping whirling windlass world…
~
Enter Crude Awakening
~
Town in Texas, Slave?
Thicken the soup
condense research
through
Immersion
Ride that gravy train…
~
Must pooh, must shower
Wrong side of sundown
Pull your pants down
Before you pooh & shower
Oncoming slow train
~
Disembark in Thrall,
Small sleepy Texan town
Much sought soup thickener,
Riding on the gravy train
Immersion in subversion
Mellow fellow travellers
Brushing eachother
Down passing by
On a sleepy afternoon

5.21
Curtains
pulled too tight
Buttocked rub together
Holding it in pensiones
european borders
tense as tension
security blankets
constrictive knuckle white
hems

Saturday, February 27, 2016
Crashed early: boring rugby, one piss call in the night, not many dead; No dump after ascent; Forcing it a bit; red meat takes longer; blueberry muffin, anything but temptation, screw the resistance; sleazy connotations; suspicious mindsets; dirty tricks;
took the morning air
never gave it back again
blueberry muffin
lead me into temptation
teapots lurk in big red chairs
piss call in the night
closet biscuit television
caught out red handed
insecurity blankets
from evil protect

skirting issues is shirking issues, piling up more unfinished business, holding on to crap. All is watered down, diluted in liquid fear. Too cold to go out, wait till eleven, another hour, sneaky freezing breeze getting up. Bad for tight muscles. Lumber up indoors, slow motion movements…

diluted liquid fear
shy retiring acts of violence
child neglected architects
fabulise rustic cities
serial killer
chainsaw milk vandals
forging lawless frontiers from
farflung sporren lands
they can only kill
you once you can kill yourself
one day at a time
~
too cold to go out
eleven freezes over
bad for tight muscles
limber up indoors instead
slow motion vowel movements
~
Sporting clownish garb
Long legged daddy long legs
spatula juggler
feelgood factory engines
churning waffler in motion
time soars slow below
foundling in feather bucket
crow ravaged thorax
doctor who goes noncing there
on fabulous adventures
british broadcasting
corporate liars

leave the heavy shit part addressed, too cold and thirsty to delve deeper, survival instincts, totem & taboo…
selling pies flying
off the shelves like shit hot cakes
fast as you bake them

Stumbled around, little walnut craps above, calf and knee hurt some, more p/k’s and lazy ways. Avoid unnecessary stress.

John the Boptist has
40 years completed!
England versus Ireland at
Twickers after tea
Wowza-Yowza times ahead
Assume the foetal
Pose of Indisposition
Act dumb
&
Suck thumb
Perambulate your inner
Advertising agencies
~
(Pause for rapid eye flutters)
~
We find you on horseback
Clad in metal work
A Knight in Shining Armour

Give me a home where
considerably more that this
is worth insuring:
a home fit for genuine
black forest gateaux
made from real black forest trees
and Gemutlichkeit

three-ish
&
Done in
Altogether…
Purr up feet

Catnip

5.40
Post prandial
flop zone
wins the day

S
unday, February 28, 2016
Penultimate of the month: beloved empties above, watching the football highlights, third fresh coffee. It turns nine: Indecision time. Morning or afternoon shower; out in the mild wild garden for a wobble and sit; or, grotto troll & bacon roll. The heat is on…

Porous herbaceous borders yield easter bunnies. Dump end of the month on the world today? Farrago of blue on blue. What else to do today? Garden, shower, eat, dance, music time. Poledance musical time…

Watch
morning cataracts
unleash cascading torrents
ideas in flood
come engulf magic moments
barmy tsunamis
overwhelm porous
herbaceous borders
consumptive easter bunnies
obliterated cobwebs
open microphones freeform
festival bonfire of profanities
foreswear allegiance to fuck all
available on offer
down the supermarket
not worth lifting but for…
Spuds.

Five hundred before
legendary lost lunchtime.
Torrential london
buses, easy similes,
heavy workload for
eternal editor,
that which is permanently
out to luncheon,
wield escutcheon spoon
limply with panache.

12.25
‘Moby Ducked & Just
wrote the time down in time
when all of a sudden:
“Lo!
thar she blows…”
rang out from above.
Spout hole
fluke splash
sink hole –
portentous omens souls gripped
in awesome jawdrop horrors
of the deep
snide sarcastic seas…’
eight bells alarum
wardrobe beats foaming pints of ale
down the old pub dancing hornpipes
Call me Junkmail,
San Pandemonium,
Tizzmania
former Devil’s Islander
sporting mucho kidney
Savonarola casserole
burnt at the stake before the
rain put out the Bonfire
of Profanities
Just his fucking shitty luck

Roam around blogworld
Is uniquenesses a noun?
Some say so some no
Booty in the eye
Of the booty
Beholder

You only need to
watch what
you’re doing
when you
risk the
chance
of
a

f

a

l

l

5.25
Five posts today. Done little else but that and swig coffee, taking in bits of radio and tv along the way. Did not: go outside, shower, clean up, sleep since seven.

T
uesday, March 1, 2016
Hare today:
Fawn tomorrow
Crowbar wire curtains
Open for dizziness
Sanguine pension on the hill
Sunburst finish pagoda
Small geology

Five hour sleep (12 -5): Another crash coming; Sleet due this morning; plenty of vittles…looks obvious. Tired workers drag themselves to work…not so obvious. Somewhere between both stalls – fencing my bets. Bad democracy bests good monarchy not what the people say life is hard this is a mess thus all in wrestling regains popularity. A medieval tournament jousting in fields of gold us peasants till the fields. Not here. Here is wait to see if we can survive another crash. Kidding ourselves we can adapt again. Another crash coming: Five hour sleep (12 -5).

M
onday, February 29, 2016
Shipping forecast for
the night plays elsewhere.
Aussie film about autism
drives me bedward night
stumbles noisily sleep’s
all too familiar
sneakthief stalks the room
added bladder
alerts induce piss
call water break cake & vape
too early and too
late illusions of
endeavour fade away to
Paris long ago
shipping forecast for
the day plays elsewhere

…that’ll do.
Shower much needed
Right knee playing up again
Dump overdue, postponement angst, stuffy consequences unwanted
Floor suck
Tablecloth shakedown
Prevailing colour sunlit stagnant ditch
Sound of taffeta ballgowns
Midday is the new tomorrow

Phones are called &
Birthday presents delivered
Of twelve year old leap baby
Haydn plays guarded harpsichord:
Fresh Composter of the Week
Coffee gets old left on table
Like non combatants
Roundel pricks epiglottis
Gulp!
Baby’s severed head waved by
Nanny in black
Departing Moscow Metro
Psychological problems
Cited as reason

1.22
Floor sucked twinkly
Is it in or is it out
Shit Shower & Seashore
Does the tide go out today?
She’s a pipeful after three
Some half-arsed notion
to post this instead of lunch
signals atrophy.

cuss about nothing.
Girlie chat show ghostwriter
sits bored shitless getting sloshed…
clear if you see it that way:
Heterostasis glasses
fag burns or mothwork despoil
faded purple sheet utilised
as fresh table cloth;
linen cupboard bulges
from overloading.
Attempted strife repulsed: no
play today case plainly stated.
Have a brick: take a deep breath.

2.30
Mulls of Gawd grin slow
butt exceeding snailspace
Grub time encroaches
They call it slowmo Monday
Tuesday’s just salad
Wednesday’s shrivelled lettuce
Thursday’s undressed crab…

That went down well!
Lotta waffle hereabouts.
The room feels longer at dusk.
Pulled the curtains too
Chosen moment before six,
not long now till clocks
spring forward and dawn falls back.
Devilish minute details
little bits of time in little bits of places
smaller than our enormous worlds.
Turned up the heat too

Now
you are
getting into it
shit it went again
in the blink of a blink of
a blink of a blink
the blink
of an
I

T
uesday, March 1, 2016
Hare today:
Fawn tomorrow
Crowbar wire curtains
Open for dizziness
Sanguine pension on the hill
Sunburst finish pagoda
Small geology

Five hour sleep (12 -5): Another crash coming; Sleet due this morning; plenty of vittles…looks obvious. Tired workers drag themselves to work…not so obvious. Somewhere between both stalls – fencing my bets. Bad democracy bests good monarchy not what the people say life is hard this is a mess thus all in wrestling regains popularity. A medieval tournament jousting in fields of gold us peasants till the fields. Not here. Here is wait to see if we can survive another crash. Kidding ourselves we can adapt again. Another crash coming: Five hour sleep (12 -5).

Ten
Henry James leaves without a glance. Was it something you did or said? Either way we got Brahms. Ginger calls ailing with the ribcage. Stay in and stay warm best advice. Eating is good for you when you are hungry.
Very tired…banjaxed one might say

Biffa sleepers crushed to death in bin lorries – 31 this past year.
Omagh bomb trial implodes
Slept three hours catch up, applied copious red stuff from new bottle.
Tried RR twice, no joy
Human bottleneck building on Macedonian border
And I think to myself…

W
ednesday, March 2, 2016
Graphic novel theme
trite crypto fascist corny
breakfast cereal
conflict over plastic monster
always ends in tender tears
what the world needs now
peace love & understanding
music by Mantovani
entitled:

Cloud Cuckoo Land

Therapy Hotel
Provides for handy
parking near cheap shops
kill two birds one stone
purpose for getting out of
bed once in a blue moon

Twonkhead splashed hot candle wax
seeking quick easy solution
to carbon foot print
global warming
accelerating
extinction of the species
accidents will happen
ten…go climb the stairs

abortive dump plus
pinball shoot its getting cold
wind gusts sough
back out there bitter
mothers slam delinquent doors,
jumpers are all the rage
suddenly this spring.

March lion roaring
going by the name
of Jake
not Leo
or Clarence (the boss eyed one
from Daktari)
What?
Means doctor in Swahili.
Wonder what sleet is called?
~
Some mild version of the felt
facts for public consumption –
why waste your breath?
Just
sat down here playing
a little five-seven-five
still
seeking some solace
some opaque reason
~
Then what?
see who cares suppose
another basket case
only takes one to know one
bean canes very feeble now
out there
fit to fall
if this wind keeps up
So you call that work, do you?
No…no not real work.

Ten to two before you know it. Just had some sleet. Makes a change. Might clear up now. Bloody Wednesday afternoon!

briar bramble bough
raking breezes sough
plant pots
back out to sea Jake forgets
who she is,
where she’s from, what she’s here for
who gave her this stupid name?

Go do something useful!
Out is not an option now.
Cook, shower, sweep, decorate.
You are on your own.
Mind your business.
Improve you circulation!
Shake a leg you slag.
Beat your inner slave around.
See what it feels like
getting pushed around by me.
Is this work?
Irregular hours, low pay,
alienation – yea its work…
Unwaged slavery sounds odd.
Who’s the exploiter?
Mr Algorithm
This is getting slow.
There’s your problem…here we go:
off on one again.
Go do something useful!

T
hursday, March 3, 2016
Yesterday was sleep through storm. Up at 3.30 am (5.30 now) for a crap and remained watching crap telly, slugging coffee. Jake is losing identity – join the club. Thursday…

Midnight blue dawn light at six ten am; two’s too many ones too much…Clueless in bazaar, which way – tiger or lady? Creep out coyly quitting land of Nod, slinking out slow from under overhanging stone, great men of lettuce. List!

Need a feed and shower soon. Do not dawdle or delay. Go forthwith purposefully. Sit out in the morning sun in your wooly hat and giant crimson jumper. Have another coffee, build a thick cheroot, always remember eight weeks is fifty-six days of sober, stair climbing, walking, writing writer. Just fifty-six days.

Took a walk, picked up the garden chair from the path, sat on it awhile, and hobbled back in; first time out of door in days & and it showed.

Blood sugar level
Blueberry muffin high
Great men of Lettuce
Midnight blue glaze dawn
Two’s too many ones too much

Boiled eggs, rye bread, metwurst, black forest ham…
Whatever happened to Booby Joan?
Feel like lying down again
Another cold wave

F
riday, March 4, 2016
Just gone seven, up since three: What the hell! Got what was needed done: caught up on the politics shows, had a bit to eat, beat myself up for everything, wrote a post after a day off yesterday. All manna of dark matters racing around, confused and heavy tired sleep. Pushing the river erodes the bank. Another weekend coming – cold weather, wall to wall rugby, not much else…

Where have both the Flowers gone?
Routine methodology
Heuristic hermeneutics
Nodded off
Actively disengaged farting about
Shut the window now drink the coffee
Be kind, be kind, and be kind
Shower now out afterwards when the sun is fatter.
Read some Henry James in a soft accent
Finally showered thoroughly at last: sun escaped me at eleven fifteen.
Got lost in conversation with my aunt
Topics covered: the health of the tribe, enfeebled; recent goings on, her homecare is perhaps a lesbian; more health, silica; the acquisition of corn bags for cold spots; Stephen Fry is a lesbian; deadly dental applications; the weather; the end.
Thus neatly round to
Midday & an Early Lunch…
pie, chips & salad.
Could watch Stewart Lee awake
Day hangs equipoised
weighted evenly laden
north easterly wind
which way the wind blows
mister weatherman

up
up hill
struggle
uphill
st
ruggle
St.
Struggles
day
march
the
twelfth
each
year

Freudian slippages galosh
Dinky polly ticks tock stickily ticklish…
Fed face
Feet up

Stewart Lee.
One fifty one.

Has the sun turned the corner?
Yes, but it is cold on the eye.

What you make
It is life:
Coffee, a mess, things up,
A call, conversation, trouble,
something from nothing ,
bad moves, feeble excuses,
minor adjustments, a quick exit…

quit warm bed call me
come back to me
can you hear you bum

S
aturday, March 5, 2016
Bed in Shetland at nine fifteen; woke in Philippines at five fifteen. Eight hours of time travel.
Left the telly on all night.
Henry caught talking
on the radio punting
his new book writ like
a literate camera
by a film director
oblique dialogue
like how people utter
when they ever utter
triggered a fleeting interest in solipsistic narcosis. We sighed and knew that he knew that we know that it would bomb like the others.
It was Walter Mitty all over again.
And look what happened to him
What did happen to him?
A firing squad outside a drugstore…

-Anchor the Spectacle, Mister Hands!
We’re going ashore.
It was too soon.
Hands blushes coyly
Shakin chestnut manacles
Eyes understood.
Hands encounters disdainful
inscrutable latitudes
ignoring the growing swarm,
manic fauve flotilla spewing
onlookers doing selfies.
You just crossed the pacific
in an enamel bathtub.
The age of true sailing is
not dead
You are feeling tired
after all that,
about an hour
or so was it?
Lost all sense of time
Only for a while
mind you
Only for a while…

Some snow,
an afterthought,
soon passes:
a dusting,
a sprinkling
barely even that.
You think one up this time.

Fags, vapes…action!
Loud came the stern reply.
All up in the air…ten bells summon time.
Tasks to be performed:

Nowhere to go, no promises to keep, could make those calls means don’t want to make those calls. Avoid game show business types. Nearly freezing mist deters outrages. Bacon & Eggs, toast, and…scotch egg & leftover olives, gherkin, tomato, cucumber, salad, bread, butter, warthog, sheepdog, pedestrian, daffodil, roly-poly pudding, lesser spotted dick, shark infested custard, chai

Fags, vapes…inaction!
& Came there no response?
A big fat zero…eleven bells come on time
Bang-bang-bang on time
dicky bird no murmur more

been going a good while now, five, six, seven, eight years or so it seems. All in seven and five? Mostly, nearly all of late. Better the devil you know they say. Who? Devils. Meandering in vape angst. Up since five remember. Nothing on the telly. Sleep again then is it? Yes, indeed…

old Dylan doc on; no work & no play; bag of ready salt; spring day heading west where suns set. No ideas, a small settlement near Torpor. Build up a head of steam walking the shadowy path, could sweep it to get warm, could try: did, failed. Under Milk Wood now, seen it before on radio: Good though, breathing in a bit of new life, fresh air. Helps me recall why it’s worthwhile, not just run of the mill chaff (say it, like mine) like mine. (Better now you’ve got it off your chest?) Fuck off, my sulk is unto death…silly old bugger. What can be done, that’s the thing about it.

You are the only
one in the room who knows what
always ends in tears

sulk unto death mad old fart
whisper sweet nothings
crudimentally

you are a hopeless case
my little european
financial arrangement

…it has been said
anxiety & stress
do not rhyme
with oranges
nothing really does
as a matter of fact
stress & anxiety
however rhyme
with dress & propriety
& quite a few other things
actually.
Yes, that is really boring.
More sucks, Vicar?
Yes

With dismay Mitty
jammed on the brakes
podcasts about podcasts

cartoons mock postcards
frankly there is more than this
dialogue bubbles

getting on and off
this treadmill is all
that there is and has
been for a while now
not only familiarity
is contemptuous but
it will do for this

S
unday, March 6, 2016
Slipping back into the danger zone, the soft warm malaise, easy tedium, recoiling from the cold spring bolstering blubber, returning to slumber, warm & easy succour; left inn some stuffy, dusty, shabby womb – When will they come and get me out? Remove me. Return again to sea, we’ll gather lilacs, in the spring again.

Listen to something
misunderstood multiverse
cast off thousands gasp
barefoot strollers on hazy esplanades
of biblical proportions
perusing the claustrophobe
mining for water
squeezing rubbery shale
moulding candescence
from watery grapes
to hurl up real high
just to observe them
exploding stand way
down under agape
foretaste cascading nectar

bit drippy; jumps around fleets; psycho on a chocolate box; cozy fruity hallucination; forgot what it’s called; terrible memory for names & faces; love me or leave me alone; funny way of showing it; standing on your head; ashplant necromancy; pulling on an old pink mandrake…

ways of seeing ways of being fantasia of factions pictures at an inhibition unpopulated cities overthrown by nature outcast misanthrope enjoys the meal based on an original recipe for disaster zillion followers on Prayerbook never pay their taxis carry machetes secreted in nasty habits
(the radio is off, headphones on, who is this? Olivier Messiah)

Live in spite of spite
Ways of seeing ways of being
Standing on your head
Head on backwards to the front
Pictures at an Inhibition
Defoliated cities bid good
Riddance misanthrope
Wolfing down cadavers
Post nouveau cuisine
Based on an original
Recipe for disaster
Zillions like on Arsebook
Good monks carry machetes
Concealed in nasty habits

That’s all bad, then. Out of the way mind. Bacon on to frazzle, scotch rolls in to warm. Will it slice tomato up nice? Shall we see shall we? Kneel ye noon, Earp sins five okra. Briskish simmer tame. Warum gobble dybbuk? Flatulent mind your manners. Just letting spleen rip – da cist Alice.

1.14
Plumbing unplumbed parts
freak out the ghost fish.

M
onday, March 7, 2016
About five hours given to sleep, lost my wheelchair & could not find it, woke at six for emotional rescue. Long winded palaver over coffee and vapes; another dodgy week of weather (or not) – snow, rain, cold, mild – till be warm wet comes to stay for the weekend. Unoriginal thought: specialty of the house. Enter yawning chasm. Post or no post: go to work on a leg. Things to do; budget next week; good bad time to remortgage? Check the numbers out. No outings in the offing. Time for a pause.

Gosh! It’s got eleven already.
Heaney, burning heather, headful of smoke and crystal gold and blue (nice day out), book six Aeneid; CP Snow, seepy snow, sludge, thaw, drip. Phone rings and you answer, wrong number, who was it wanted me? The cessationalist wrenched me from the notebook fetched to search for Ginger’s number that covers this period last year, the prelude to the main event – or was it? Think Miltonic death of Christ for aesthetic reasons. Lala? Not not he to me; then the cops, what may have happened? He had my number. Others would not call me first. No answer from Ginger. Called him after the call. So what gives? If its’s something heavy they will call. Ain’t going nowhere. Can’t – Sitting Duck. (Theme from Dragnet)

Good shit that when the humour’s in. Takes you up without you noticing and leaves you there. Setting is as usual all when there is no company. Echo chamber of good and bad vibes. The call was a bad vibe. Made a mistake answering, fearful faeries swarm, Sybille’s off one one, full of self-recrimination. Fear and repentance. Strange things happen at Easter. Is it Lala? Claimed he was the son of God at Xmas before they locked him up the first time this season. How spins my head? Not at a bring a bottle party that’s for sure. Nine weeks now is it? You know full well it is. Never revisit the scene of the crime. Easier said than done when you got guilt complexes. They prey on that. Ask Kafka and Dostoevsky. If you can’t get hold of them leave a message.
Where’s my vape? Go out in the sun (while searching for the vape the sun goes in).
Never mind it’s cold out there. More coffee. Eleven thirty nine. Alethic considerations indicate an anxious modality. You are unable to run. It’s the way you tell ‘em. So the morning floats away to join the other ghost fish.

Run through that notebook after lunch – rich pickings, Youthinks

cast shadow walking
slow bent stiff as if stilted
heads to the shed
in late low morning sun
casts long chastened
shadow of tall man
odd looking fellow wearing
silly wooly safety hat

Lot of work to do when it warms up. Another phone call leaves no message. Waiting on sausages, warm rolls, scallion slithers, thinly slices tomatoes, tabasco, and fresh green salad leaves…

Knocked out by food, off for a little nap…two afternoon.
Awoken by woof singular…four twenty three.

7.37pm
Posted one.

Setting
spurious
restrictions erring
on the prehensile
side of caution

imposing
unnecessary straitjackets

~
Free as an ibex
Whenever off the tether
Wetter sometimes than others.
Vast gaseous clouds
seem clearer from a distance.
Too see wood from trees first leave forest
Fallow for a year

Please go now to taste
if anyone anonymous
else licked this got five hits not
bad going so far
Seven teen syllables
five first line seven second
five last line finish
limitless freedom
only if you play by the rules
paradoxical garbage
nothing is permissable
the are no absolutes left
smudging clumsy wipe away
squishy-squashy granata

T
uesday, March 8, 2016
Rude dumprush alarm call seven. Broke the logjam in spades. Indifferent weather report. Nights in shite latin. Fell asleep to Tolstoy doc round midnight. Let’s call it six hours between us. Thought for the day already. Mad rush for the exit…

Yes, frustration wells.
Feel another one slipping away, empty liberty ships blockade the harbour, cities besieged by privateers and nincompoops, feel little spiders crawling out your ears. The centre will not hold much longer. Pragmatism tempers action. Stitch in time saves nine. Asylum torn and tattered. Bursting at the seams. Obese population explosion. Gross incompetence. Exercise some self control. Strangers & Brothers soon get bad memory for names & faces.
The abacus collapses.
Each savoury thought
Generates breathless excitement
Here comes the ghost fish
Sat atop the ghost chips
Seasick crew of mushy peas
Salt & Vinegar lashings
Down the Deep Sea Takeaway
Supper out tonight

Think that’s better than the post! Interrupted by bloody Heaney & McKellern (not Macmillan for a change!), never mind, if a job’s worth rushing…instant gratification, a need to crap satisfied. True but sad. Always got be somewhere else doing something else. Running. From where to where, from what to…face at the window: Harris occurs but briefly before his bus. Bearing up under the circus dances.

Scrammed a pan of fry with a fresh hen’s egg; shovelled it in the furry furnace. Midday meal. Frenzied inactivity. Drooly Schmoliticks with Posh Bint. Pissed off with Heaney, green with envy for the dead; sad state of play. No sunshine you see…or talent, or application. Leave proper pomes to the birds.
Do not fly before
you can stand on the shoulders
of circus tumblers
most intemperate outbursts
elicit scant reaction
drop in ocean

not bloody Icarus again?

A most intemperate humour indeed!
Someone shook the stick, rattled the bee hive, stirred things up…keep on writing it out, Mister Therapist. Amount to a hill of beans, no more nor less. Looks too cold to venture out in this, not even bothering with scant disregard.

Washed the form, reviled the content. No time like the present to…always been a sulky little bastard that one. Just sat there staring, feet up on a Rolfing ball, feeling hard done by. About an hour give or take a few eons.

W
ednesday, March 9, 2016
Six on the dot, up since half—four when the call of the bowel sent me scampering above to disburthen most copious; this accomplished mission moi returned below for coffee and yankee elections. Left leg work while sat, particularly spreading and stretching the hip and pelvis relieving pressure on the right side deltoid. Leading with the left (rightbrain), following with the right (leftbrain) – co-ordination is all!

Seems like the spirit of the sixties is dying off now the fifties is all the rage, fifties is the eighteenth century, teddy boys and wellingtons, post war mini wars with the scots, decline of empire, rise of superpowers, post agrarian and post industrial ages. Yes. I’s all mixed up today as usual, the difference is it feels better. Is it getting better all the time (can’t get no worse). Always forget your barricades (brackets). Here he goes ahead of himself (leans back extending right leg semi-automatically, favouring left hip lead, not a southpaw like his dad. Left and right unite and…see what you fancy doing. Infrastructure, the wireless informs me, is the future. Thinks bubble, pause, abstract cut shot to wet hedge. The safest place for negative equity. We are the builder’s merchant capital. Venetian mindset, surrounded by water, mixed race, well connected, slave rich. The Grand Tour is the World Tour. Where is this going? For an interlude starring Boris? Blockade Calais? Shut the tunnel? Radical Whig leadshership, mad limping poets, writing comedy sober, writing tragedy pissed. Anti social behaviour the norm, new technology…running out of stem here.
Back to the sixties
A romantic interlude? The breaking of the working class, luddite resistance, rural rides, pamphleteers and bloggers, BBC and the CofE, media revolution…sound like an OU prospectus, gotta run fast to keep up with the old! So where were we. George Martin & David Bowie (did he do the Laughing Gnome?). What will history make of them? Wait for McCartney and the Queen to buy it. Not to forget Reg Dwight. Something like that anyway. Who will be the Dicky Valentine? Johnny Rotten, perhaps. The music business…got a lot to answer for.

Eleanor drug fiendpicked up the spliff that she
left in her bra on
the floor what was for
all the homely people…

Post it! Post it! Post it!
Insists the little lost show off
Messing with my head

Nine-thirty
Open the door
Automatic
Can opener
Wet
Forgot
Let
in the air
Open little window
Back one: manual
Cold out still
Mind…
Ten-fifteen

Not voice
you Munchkin
but voices: Voi-ces –
free them up not lock them up
all you do is just shut your face
up and write it down
Read my lips
Buster!
~
My muse
is in a
strop with me
today
speculation is
a waste of time best spent
doing what your told…
~
Artistic license?
Just a loss leader
To lure you in the choice is yours
all you have to do
is spend time writing it down

10.43
No Harris, no cry.
Removed annoying dag
Dried up fruit cake
Hard to break down cranberry
Undigested lamb cutlet
Or something more sinister
Don’t look now says Henry James

11.30
The Doss
Is on:
PMQ’s
Food
Is
…
Worth it
waiting for
that is.

Sough makes a comeback. Neat word: used it last week some hare.

12.29
Reading Don Quixote; knights errant sporting paper beavers…hit an obstinate wall of pooh sporting my fan. First man up the Matterhorn; end of care in Reading; F-Bomb calls, crap line. Writing’s going nowhere – too much surf, not enough turf – wailing so much better on the vapes. Scuff, scowl, scratch, snuff, claw…action satiations. Setting: field, tree, house…interior or exterior? Exterior. To what? What could you be inside of? Silly game. Who or what is this? A woman.

She lay looking up at the balloons passing by, the grass was wet and warm, she smiled at wildly waving balloonists, made clownish menacing by sublime overcast skies. The balloons were still. Only her and the earth were moving. This is what fun was. Just her and the earth moving, and the rest stood still. Africa was still, Tuesday was still, the trains were still, the clocks did not move on the quarter, anywhere. It was mad. It was liberation. It was a broken neck.
Did she know this happened. Well if not what was the point in remembering it? Identity, she supposed and sighed in disgust. That bloody game again. Who do you think this is? It’s you. Whoopee! Like being back at school again, who are these strangers? Do they know all they want for now. Looks like it. Good, they’re gone.

Plagiarism is all!

Ruralridesdannycoffeepillsvitcdrinkcurryonchickendogupstairsdownstairspinballmahjongphew…an eventful afternoon (aftermoon – daylight); time & toad, dear buoy, time & toad wait for nomad

Four o’clockish.
Blinking is allowed.
Changed pink stations, bad move: health talk talk to sociology think, talk, talk, talk – what for, who for? Keep a few punters on for research, the interesting ones. Could turn it off, you know…it’s okay, been through worse in my time. Fizz, buzz, bang, hiss – cut quick to the chase. There are only seconds till…you lose interest.

Curry soon. Shitty bottom kind of day. Only getting better done. Could stick a pin in a notebook. Oulipo style. Set the ball rolling.

Eat & Sleep or Sleep & Eat…

T
hursday, March 10, 2016
Bed at eight; up at five (plus half-time piss).
Danny did not show – playing chase me, maybe Low on shopping. No big notions to fuss me apart from the statutory sense of futility & obsolescence: mere social constructs without my influence thus not worth worrying about.
Worth considered effort
is joy to be found
in living doggo.
Seems milder so where’s walkies

Murmurs and rustles
unheard imagined trifles
suspend disbelief…

There’s a haiku for the day and here’s the crux: no good or bade vibes, no wind in the sails, becalmed, reefknot omphalos, birdless horizons.
Aha!
on the horizon notion,
eventless horizon,
black hold of tedium,
narcolepsy – too much sleep!
watched bird free shower
contrived of something useless
broke two eggs in hope
big notions fussing about
social constructs without yolks
thus worth worrying poachers
suspend disbelief
sweet joy to be found
purple birdless horizons…

cake over; coffee on the way; dog on and out; sticks fell down, retrieved, resettled in their place behind the tawdry lobby door, the back door is left open, the dog can run in and out, but not with the sticks on the floor, blocking the way for its opening arc. That’s why I picked them up, I think. Writing it down makes me unsure: Sounds somewhat contrived. Pithy? Is that the dog at the door? Yes! The dog is back in. Pawfall overheard scampers head upstairs. Shut the door and put an end to this palaver. The coffee has run through.

12.51
It is what it is
somehow sounds somewhat contrived
It was what it was
Seeing it written down scares me
Is that the dog at the door?

Did not get up till well gone eleven.
Old grey day.
Showering is it?
Change bed.
Eat food.
It looks & feels useless just now.
Just a phase within a phase…

Fourth part of Heaney
wherein he finds dad digging
what kept you this time
just making Seamus famous
wielding a pen with aplomb

crossing corduroy bridges
looking philosophical

hamlet is king james
joyce is the ghost of his dad
read ecce puer
who calls a child Stanislaus
but a brazen auld joxer

three!
War breaks out

Creamed my legs: preparation for the big wash before the going down of the sun or in the morning when it will be too late to feel the benefits…

4.34
Up to scrub soon.
Another one of them there days; twelve hours sleep all in all.
The Novelty of stretching out, and relaxing in recoil, too many times unable to over these confinement years.
The edge of the woods is a good bad place.
What is in can see you:
what is out cannot.
You can see what’s out,
but you can’t see what’s in.
do you Remember
the way back to where.
Proceed with caution.
Temper action with prudence.
Look before you leap.
Avoid the old traps and haunts.
If you must go in again that is.
Must you go in again?
What are you after this time?
Some cherished familiar illusion or what?
There is so much worth doing here.
Stay and see what happens.
It could be fun finding out.
Even though it may not seem that way just now;
enjoy the benefits of your endeavours,
build on them,
do not succumb to the tedium
of wild, frantic spectacles of pleasure
that is the opposite of pleasure
unless you derive pleasure in tedium.
The cream is absorbed.
Go and wash it off with care.
Attend sore blind spots

Showered, made bed up (the old sheets), and on we go…
Eight is the new four
Clocks spring forward on the 27th.
Seventeen days
On Easter Sunday
Pinnate shadows cast
fingers monochrome gloveless
casablanca mornings
under pergola
down the hangover market
unquenchable thirst fat man
intelligence like marble
solid cold & hard

F
riday, March 11, 2016
Visitors call down for fresh coffee at four-thirty, they have just returned home. Messing with that bunch of words up there; suppose it gets light outside: 6.15.
Mist worth a look at. First since October; two months off the winter solstice. We cool down & we heat up.
Stay up?
What for?
Have a dump; pull the blinds; write anything; check out the utilities; cream my arse…
The weekend…rapid onset catatonia tedium city beckons empty flashing lights upper air higher ground.
An outing! Sharp intake of dread: character, setting, action. In & out of cars & bars – familiar terror story of well-known consequences:
You can do better than that.
Garden? Garden shop. No shopping! Just a spin, simples. See where. Querulous – vision of just being sat in a car. Visit someone. Out of the blue – who? The aunt? Not just yet, wrong timing, circumstances, mood…

Misty Christmas lights adorn derelict bean canes pretty hallucinations. Conceive a figure treading on bad feet down the garden path. Should I interrupt? Say hello. Wave. Tap the window. Say what.
How’s it going?
Deadly silence; man of few words, most of them ignored, His workmates paid attention. Woman ruled the house. All shit & bluster. All for the quiet life; a wee one, 74 not a bad knock. Would be 105 today: Is…

Looks like an afternoon snooze. Last call for the morning pooh. The exercise is worth it anyway. Is it slipping or changing? Confounded by sobriety, warm frontier, relish; easy bowel emotion, tai chi it upstairs, spider walk down. Rehearsal over, your audience awaits. Rehab is not all so bad after all. Warm, comfy bed &…

S
aturday, March 12, 2016
It was off out to the pub! Six pints, two large brandies, a local jaunt: old haunts grown older, the agony of fire doors, popped in to see RR on the way home. Feeling roughened and mucky. Defiled and betrayed by self. Inevitable shits this misty morning. They are going to savage my benefits. Another kick in the guts of recovery. Surplus to requirements of dominant ideology. Running fast to stand still. Let’s change the mood this summer. The sixties is dead, long live the sixties. Nothing to lose no more. Untrue. Will Harris make it round today? Me say no. Vouch to get cleaned up; take up eating again. Everyone is a grass these days. Climate of treason. All tobogganists are fascists.

Fry up them sausages, black & white pudding, rashers, tomato, eggs, toast…blearghhh!
Cooked and partially ate – slowly, slowly catchy junkie. The day is mild and heavy, the grey is soiled, lurid white, everything is left polluted and ragged & staring at it makes it worse. I hate the Caleva Arms and will never go there again. Badly bruised thumb. Here comes sunshine.

Heavy negation greets my gaze. Shower before rugby, draw a line under it, move off altogether…destination unknown. More wandermust than wanderlust. So it feels jaded and icky. Shower makes some difference, air refreshed. Contemplate a post. What for? Futility malingers stale beer perspiring brandy fumes looks so pretty in the glass. Was it a happy drunk? You were pleasant enough. Sadness seethed deep down angry grief why must it always be you that gets the good stuff. Green eyed monster primal drive. Never learnt to play nicely. Difficult skill to master. Ireland thrashing Italy…yawn. Still quite chill on the Oregon trail. Where do all these names of states come from? Perry Como?

Nailed up and bleeding security undermined cruel rite of passage. Third fizzy of the day – watch it. Hell is other people. Pleasure degrades to disgrace. Disgusting show of yourself. The state you are in. The state you get yourself into. What a bloody state. Ugly is as ugly does. Displaying all the self-loathing emotions from a to b.

Surge of energy, channel the power, create to destroy, consume ad nauseum, from feast to famine, clichés born of clichés…lots of tutting and head shakes, a discordant so and so. Sundown chill swoops
4.44…

S
unday, March 13, 2016
5.01 – mist thinks its fog nights, hard to say until sunrise, which is around six. That’s and hour to kill with sleep or wake, wireless never sleeps, world war three rages out there, somewhere in dark fog. Aftermath bowel after Friday’s devotions some ploughman’s lunch. There’s butter beans at play too. Must one keep going? Is this for broadcast? Not now in your opinion. Wait till desperation comes. Grabbing hold for dear life. Making a night run. Dreaming of happy landings. Leave the past behind. Fight or flight for safety. Night flight in the mist world service talking fog. Not long to go now. Into Sappho’s lap. Who was that guy on Friday? What did you make of him? In some discomfort, looking a lot got at, scruffy old dosser, going thin on top. Looking to be saved. Straggler of prehistory. Before the winter of discontent. Wars of the Roses. That was last week. David Starkey Monarchy. In the wee small hours too. Went to bed early, nothing on the telly. Same as last night. Not the night before. That made a change. Make a change. What?

Gethsemane, Gethsamane
One fore you and one for me
Somewhere near the River Lee
First thing in the morning
Scrunching tinnies in a bush
Fishers fishing without luck
Throw your face down in the muck
First thing in the morning
Gethsemane, Gethsemane
Is there honey still for tea
First thing in the morning.

Nothing shattered reverie vivid colourless vision something inside your eye hurts. Was it the black pudding or the claustrophobe within. Warm mist autumn cold mist spring, different types of cold and warm. Could provide examples to support stated position, feed the reader’s expectation, maintain form of discourse, but, frankly, can’t be arsed. Just having a wallow and a wonder wandering near misty woods. Bet it’s nippy out. Getting knotted up here. tension knots tight tai chi time did one mention go computer winner. Off to play with toys. Too mush duality. People scare you. Are you really like that everyman? Taliban, caliban, ice cream man, Mister man. Anthropocene man.

After stretches retch
watching vile reptile mutant
spout putrefaction

House. Home. Garden…from there to infinity and beyond. Time to get digging. Victory is all. End of book VI…did it not record? Getting pissed off with green lines, red lines, gudelines. Posted the Gethsemane yarn to modest success. Much to tidy in the galley. Another chicken dinner.

No Harris again. John Fowles on the Verb. Metafiction. Be brutal with your reader. A bad parent. Corner the masochist legion. Can’t be arsed. What’s in it for me? It is always first thing in the morning before the all-consuming suds. Its only rock’n’roll. Do something soon or perish. Suffer unto breath.

Do you dare go out?
Snoopers everywhere
watching every step you take
digit counters fall like lies
invisible drones gauge your
intentions:
good bad or indifferent
depending on their point of view
a nano state anthropocene
goes to work on itself
paranoia made real big
brother made redundant
spends early retirement
cormorant counting after dark
grand inquisitor smart phones
just stole the joy of Going
pig ignorance is folly
when it’s wise to wise up…
Said
The slimy
Saboteur
Waiting in your wings.

Not bad! Needs work as usual. Sun coming out, tories giggling. Cooked full english did not fancy it, scavenged a sausage from the pan. Feeling fatter already. You’ve had your fun now knuckle down.

Spring is springing out
outside now the mist has gone
little green shoes out

& out it was; a feverish totter, tense and porcupined dark bleak pangs of mortal fear, adapt to survive, change requires great endeavour no matter how big or small, boating ponds and oceans are the same. Out again in a minute…a walking thing by Phineas Newborn (some names sometimes the right times for some names)…more or less coffee; gonna have to work up to those windows, could take a couple of days. No backsliding…or biting. Jumper on, socks next, cold nose, warm heart…Henri Gorecki (who he?), dead famous Pole. There you go again showing your ignorance of finer things.
1.15

The crutch encourages the search for support. Like the church and the pub. Someone hear is killing time…who to see, what to do beyond these four walls and garden? More hours training before flying solo. Keep up the good work!

Bubble car vacant! Hollow omphalos. Three posts now. Three. Kick off. Where is this going? Out for a sit in the sun at the guardian table got cold came back in made more coffee, did someone call my name, want me?
No…so we press on. Peacefully after exertions. Some call it feierabend…it was not much but it was something. Never forget that. Blackadder Goes Forth seemed appropriate…coffee, donuts, restlessness, agitation…
5.00

Milton! The Civil War…

Blind Tiresias
Rhythmically swaying
Iambic rapper
Muttering incantations

Committing morning verse
To pellucid memory
Ear cocked for milkmaids

Waiting enthroned in turmoil
illuminated by defeat
cherished hard won republic
brief lost earthly paradise
postponed for another eternity
another enlightenment
another bright spark

M
onday, March 14, 2016
Poxy night since three: skin rampant, noises off:

trying to find a
decent pub in Reading,
going round in circles,
meeting local drongos in
ugly, crowded bars.
Up for cream, piss, coffee and cheroots since five…

Watched
The Night Manager,
Bond movie
BBC budget,
chief female spook
played by Poet Laureate –
it’s a new dawn on a grey day.
Calmed down after yesterday’s
sugary fry-up hiatus.
Big bomb in Istanbul
Merkel on the slide.
Grinding poverty
in the national interest
the right thing to do
sarin on the streets
of Birmingham quells
public sentimentalists
welcome to the working week…

Yes, the working week! The list is in your head; composed cycling in. Handover from the weekend. Uneventful, minor spats, pissed Friday, ill Saturday, anxious Sunday. Ready to wreck! Knuckle down, nose to the murdstone, or flee to Dover…
Walkies. Washies. Fishies. Eight soon, grab a shower. Harris or no Harris the show goes on. Long term unecessary suffering is bad for you…umm Calls as and when. There’s always the house & garden to sort pressing. Must box well clever. This is the current project. Ongoing work in progess. Check out the trade guff. Drink more coffee.
Fruit salad & yoghurt. Fresh water. Get on the right track, Booby.

Sun out. Irish uprising starts the week. No hits for parochial post. What the hell, you know where they live – America.
9.18
Seeing the dirt round here, the cleaning up before the cleaning, bugs me. How can one do a day’s work without doing a day’s work? Turn up the heat and shower soon. About ten. Finished the salad, might read Milton by Blind Blake.

10.14
Still
cold out yet black
crate marks
Paws
grave work cut out
for days
months years
home
& garden
duties plain as
That nose
on your
face…

Bathe hands silver sink
Long easy serene warm soak
magnesium fingers float
nicotine stained goujons
natural movements stirring

Early elevenses. Six minutes stolen from the clock. What a lot you have done! What a lot you have not! One step at a time: No Harris, No shower. Methinks he’s voted with his ribs. Perhaps a little sunshine now the world is warmer.

Legs out in sunlight did not turn to dust. Dry brown oakleaf tags on new grass. Little brown bird picks stick dilapidated chicken run. Thoughts of informers. Easter 2016 looms big. Radio historians deconstruct events and persons. Learn from your mistakes. Get it right next time you fancy freedom. Bloody politics makes me sick.

Colder than reckoned out on the old green plastic chair. Wrap up a bit warmer in future. A kindly word to the reckless never goes amiss. Early lunch before showering or shower and late breakfast. Wait for the sun to come round a bit more. Fancy a pie?

Ate the
leftovers cold,
ate upright
beside the cooker.
Winds
picking up out there.
Up for a shower
about one

everyone’s a pome
fancy a pukka pie yet
sell by date today

1.17
Things chug-chug-chugging
along again once
train lines cleared
of oppressive leaves
other obstacles malinger:
sheer mediocrity
complacent shyness
myriad telegraph poles

Just
never feels perfect
last long enough from
time to time.
Then…whoosh your off like a whippet.
Shower will not run away.

Inbetween showers you write. Keep your paper dry. Wetroom is home – Draconian cuts forcing you to economise. Cut off your left leg.

Undirty deed done. Freezing gusts round Cape Sock. Scuttled off inside for shelter. When the wind lies down…

Competition fevered brow fearing acceptance shy retiring flower. Somehow despoils purity of obscurity ducking fame & fortune scared of your shadow running for cover wearing disguises dodging the paparazzi…

Seven o’clock
Showered; walked; ate; slept;
read; wrote; watched; listened;
recalled; forgot; spoke; sniffed; wiped;
worried; hurt; feared; lamented;
bemoaned; derided; conceived; dismissed; praised;
commented; breathed; blinked; obfuscated; requested;
thanked; laughed; smirked; joked; combed; wept;
opened; shut; noted; grimaced; puffed;
huffed; guffed; splashed; winced;
scoffed; looked; realised;
reasoned; questioned;
stretched…
busy day.

T
uesday, March 15, 2016
Midpoint March ups & downs all night. Home alone later today. Enter the world of competition, get your hopes up to see them dashed: A Sea Change, verse and story, go to work. As for the rest: more walkies, more dumpies, more wordies – anything strange? No…just another dump. Johnny Logan Eurocrap.

9.30
Two posts, satisfactory hits, read old favourites, kicking over traces, Tosh update. Not plumping for, making up mind to, commit ye!

World slipping away at your fingertips; every little pang of stagefright; neuronal jitters; shakin allover; Hemshwelle; traces installed…

Draft animal kicks over
the traces sustaining
vermillion abrasions
gurtest hits
depilation
vehicles on tow
to follow

pinprick
starling
stirs
conifers
shrug ursine
Appalachian
sprig

landscapes & portraits
awesome collections adorn
miniature still lives

put on the oven & ran for lunch; gog & agog too much; cover me in menial chores, distractions like turning up the heat. Letting your coffee get cold so you can watch it reheat waiting for the ping and then forget it again. Yes, the weather is still there doing what it does. Never miss a chance to rest. Idler.

Upstart crow
Black bird
Raven
Like a
Loon
Verb

Dinner is probably ready
The plate is warm
Wash it up

Apply
to affected area
Rub well in
when symptoms persist
Insult your Doctor

5.51
Serious grey cold solo gig enlivened by barren Scandinavian tundra. Cursory tidy cups, plate, milk bottle; made fresh coffee; bathed hands in tea tree; pulled curtains too. Third post sent to alleviate inaction; e-mail from Jones, mini ha-ha. Slept through the racing, saved pennies there. No big ideas just now, potter about, half-leg half-wheel, describing odd circles.

‘we are where we at’
peculiar thing to say
do not understand…
moving on, going
forward, rushing like
gas spiral around black hole.

The constant hewing, carving, chipping, honing is the work of making metaphor. Bollocks is it. Just bang them out waca-style, haikuing all over the shop, no brainer, cheap and popular. You want that top end stuff go elsewhere. One of them posh buggers.

Narcissus & Goldmund
The birth of music & the spirit of joy
When the music’s over…turn out the light
The end of the night

W
ednesday, March 16, 2016
One hour before dawn after a hard night at the primaries
waiting for the door to open, the light to go on, the dog to make fresh coffee, vittles to be stashed away; and then, here & now, same as usual, Flower sits looking at a screen, making digital pictures, feeding the machine, and not minding it a bit.
This is what is done between the toddles and rest, the food and the toilet & has been since the plummet.
Budget Day today: A bad day to bury good news
Apollo & Dionysius drop out the race for The Face.
The centre is thus absent in the republic, only a fool and a ghoul remain, congratulating eachother fondly with a tweak of the gonads.
When the little fat lady sings.
Not only in America.
All over the free world
little fat ladies will sing
while the old greys suck their whistles
and drown their sorrows in mystic heated wine.
Assassination in Mississippi – shitload of esses either way.
How will this hang with the jocks?
Castration anxiety, dead cats in top hats, impotent, bitter, twisted.
Houses full of faces from foreign lands,
Women spurning dirty laudry.
Where will the money go?
They have lost the game now they’ve lost the plot.
GOP RIP –
more like skulk in a sulk,
throwing toys out prams,
playing cowboys and Indians on Wall Street.
The Great Society is somewhere else.
And, as for the Big Society…

Just gotta keep writing, doing writing, being writing till you’re not.
Rest up soon; check out the dawn first, with or without a cheroot? With, methinks…
Shower later, trim beard, eat, back to work then; maybe above when Cheltenham gets going. Probably want to crash round then. Collision course foreseeable.

Grabbed two close shut eyes
implanted orbital sockets
see the world the same as me.
Between nine and nine thirty, let’s call it nine-fifteen and be done with it.
Sunny one, quite cold and no wind that bites yet.
Omega block or something? Magma (sounds vulgar):
a weather phenomenon much loved
by horticulturalists of land and sea
& meteorologists of air & wind.
Turn off chicken, let it cool down.

Flower ate the chicken. The waiter impressed him having no club foot or distinguishing feature. He felt oddly safe, secure that there was no intrigue afoot.
The sky was right.
The temperature was right.
Then zap
enmeshed in crushing chainmail.

Georgie Gargoyle sneers
leers drools pours derision
raining scorn upon
the weak, sick, old, cold,
&
all the living and the dead
in yet another bogus
snooty pogrom.

Flower was in bloom. Spouting cascading unctuous copious issue, plenty for all-comers…

12.46
Shower after food; floor suck & nap; planning & plotting away…

Ate pie, chips, sausage, salad and two bowls of biscuits.
Blaklion bags me eight notes.
Slept until 5.30.
LRB -£12 for 12 Issues…PayPal

Had a wash and changed after an hard, dry opiate birth gift to an obstinate little turd called Nigel. Brain coding a la brain. Everchanging music symphonies quick as a blink…
10.03
Brendan O’Carroll on the Easter Rising takes an hour. Body clock berserk; dog emitting vile stench; incoherent Scottish comic on the box – life is good. Kitty for tomorrow’s racing. Bed again?

Up the wooden hill again at six-thirty. Posted a swingeing broadside at this brutal scum state. Mi-Homecare forced to pay up – where’s my cut?
Steady little Jim…lest we forget:

S
t Patrick’s Day
Thursday, March 17, 2016
Bottom of the night, y’all.
Up the heat, take a shower, don your gladrags &…fart about.
Bad bottom blues: crunchy nut clusters rake intestines all night long eat too much shit drink more water and eat green salads & fruit…another yomp above pends.

Eight

Great day dawns out there
Demands participation
of all those concerned.
Try to rise to the occasion.
Put your best foot forwards
Life is what you make of it
Loud cheers & tobacco spits
Glaze your arses &
Roast the queer old Dean

8.45
Went surfing funny papers
Nano Business
All things being unequal
Shower experiencing
Stopwatch malfunction

9.57
Showered, sporting black, left vape in deckchair.
Back for the invisible craic – where are they all?
Strangers & Brothers part nine.
Lewis Elliot goes forth
I go forth
The old turd looks the same as I get right out my brain…
Consistently thus…

failed fiscal forecasts
fraudulent financial fix
feeds fresh fiaso

Back bench revulsion
Popular repulsion

The Penny Dreadful caught the eye. Cork based mag. Clonakilty mon amour! Taint a bird, said Enola Gay, bailed out in Inchidoney yesterday; empurpling prose grows like your nose…

F
riday, March 18, 2016
As evening grows longer nights grow shorter. Slept all evening and woke at one in the morning, it is now twenty to three. When – In the morning or the afternoon? The drag chain rattles gradual inexorable down the slipway into a fetid pool, a thick condensed soup, stagnating in warm darkness, listening to the bubble of gurgling algae, the ladder of complex nylons. This is what next to nowhere is like. The suburb of overspill town, a slop bucket for the effluent society…writing is such a pleasure! All in all misery repeats itself with accelerating monotony when day is lived by night.

Shut the little window, boiled the kettle, huddling down for the wee small hours before dawn and sleep, tempted to inhale more mindspin incense, chathartic soma for the soul. This is, by the way, a subliminal moan. Helpless cries for help echo through the night, hyena laugh or banshee howl, hunter and hunted, lorry and quarry breaking the observant silence. Three twenty nine, Strangers & Brothers catch up from yesterday morning on night time radio, an eighteen hour shift listening, waiting, fretting, neither here nor elsewhere. No more coffee till dawn.

Vanguard foot slides down
exhaling hulk slips groaning
sighs under eiderdown
waves goodnight cruel world
helpless cries for help
hyena laugh & banshee howl
echo through stark night
lorry and quarry breaking
observant silence
drag chains crochet light

tight as a DA that one
bet you twenty-five to one
nobody likes it

take a break now muddled fellow, get thine head together, how many have you had in twenty-four. Go & check it out!

Well, coffee was made and it’s now nine-thirty. Already out to shut the shed door about an hour ago. Did not fall asleep till the morning shipping villanelle; so, that’s another hour and a half to add to the five between eight and one, six and a half in total, and less the night before. Then there was four in the morning on Wednesday. What about Monday? What a mess. A week now since the outing, quite an earthquake and aftermath all things considered this way.

Plenty of grub & smokeables; weather gets colder, greyer; Gold Cup (had a late win yesterday – Empire of Dirt).
Empire of dirt saves bacon on Paddy’s Day – sort of thing you relished writing in Henry Days. When this was fun and there was hope from time to time. Not so today sat up at night feeling the claw pulling you back down into the mire.
Get a wash, make some grub and move around, bather your hands & face, get some air in the place, have a pootle in the garden.
Turn down the heat. Fetch the milk in. Leave the door open when you do.

Last strangers & brothers, corridors of power; final bill for last year’s utilities – check your tariffs with OVO; luncheon & Cheltenham; Ginger been and gone; Worzel down mum’s in West Country ‘painting the house’. Salmon & Black Pudding, salad & …?

Six
Cheltenham afternoon; hot room/cold room; le weekend is arrived; this time last week pissed up – fuck that malarkey!

Saturday, March 19, 2016
Read back through the first fourteen pages of this. Good stuff/Bad Stuff, you can’t say it’s you what did it. Henry’s Days. Metanano fiction, symbolism in tatters, takes all styles suppose…

Somewhere between five and six.
Anchovy and white pudding wait in soiled galley.
Cold in, snap shut window, frozen toes…
Go left, young man, go left.
White pudding.
Headmaster Fallon leads prayers, Good Bye Mr Chips.
Don’t push it, just relax and watch the show.
Like the soldier…
Horace Greeley were he.
Not Clarence Greeling, damned close though.
Hone your skills, sharpen up.
Yes, a shower!
Turn the heat back up.
There’s white sliced bread and prawn cocktails.
Nobby on a Saturday? Improbable.
Free run of wetroom.
Long slow shower and gloat.
Tory difficulties spawn wondrous opportunity.
New narratives getting written as we speak.
Clog the airwaves, there’s a flap on.
Enter noble Sir Boris, sausage in hand.
Long personal battle in the long run.
All of a dither.
A right old tizzy.
Nine.

Hancock’s the Lad
Eichmann’s nastier brother.
Little Hitler Youth.
Colditz Scarface Valentine
likes compulsory showers

Danny calls in good form. Promise of a cherry tree. Olive orchard should you wish. Gethsame pops into mind. Twisted old fart anguish. Greeks come bearing gifts. All this christian shit. Makes you think of Easter.
Jesus!
Stephen Crabbe gets the dead man’s shoes, accepts a poisoned chalice, in the national self- interest. Why not the lad himself? Is he not your favoured son? Your chosen one. Re-enter Sir Boris, bearing his sausage. How the pleasures of our youth revisit, don’ya know. Now take it like a man lying down. You can fill in the rest. Welcome to the world of lord snooty and his bum chums. Give it a break mate. Think of higher things like everything else…
Mohn was the nasty little shit. What are some people like I ask you?

A Gibson is for Sunday and not for…ever, just because..doesn’t mean…nasty stain…big boys do cry. Why countenance this misery? Moderate paranoia. Food provides the answer. Why you not eating?
Why is nothing happening?
Why you not cooking?

The day commences
question heavy
underwhelming poxy
leaden sky as it
just turned eleven

Steak Pie & Chips
in to burn
tad wonky
Morning
lies in tatters
Anti-personnel weapon
Pops
in for a
Chat

Ate, right let’s start again. Midday. Shower is it? Before the running rugby. During or after fusses me not.

2.10
Someone in Australia likes me! Slept through lunchtime. Really ought to shower & change. Pigged out on dark chocolate disgestives – what happens when crips rise up. Not bothered by the Rugby.

…light a candle for
the world for the world light
a candle for the world…

you will feel better for it.

Return purged from Glencoe
Room needs a good airing
Smell of torched digestive
Caravaggio
Pigged on dark chocolate
Dominican flagellant
Sniffing out truffles

Savanorola
Machete Bolognese
The sword of the gallic Lord
Descends upon the city

Vanity of bonfires
Spontaneous combustion
Embers smoulder yet

S
unday, March 20, 2016
Equinox; dawn soon; airheaded…much to do but where to start, beginning to end. Understand something. There’s the rub. What’s to do? Matters of great importance. Bacon & Eggs…

One of them funny days again, wrong sort of sleep, wrong sort of light, did all the right things wrong…

Seedtime equine ox
astronomical lingo
wrong sort of sleep
one of them funny old days
doing all the right things wrong
wrong sort of light to boot
mutters of great importance
scent whiff of torched digestives…
yawning bore arduous grey trudge
through south faced field first thing foraging
for breakfast, pretty slim pickings- tea tree dewdrops
bathe hands & start again humming nice day for a white webbing.

Nine means Duncan-Smith time, mauled like a pillow by Dexter Marr; right brain, left brain, no brain, bird brain dead, brain drain, bacon burning, car crash breakfast timings wrong.

1.34
Eight hour shift with breaks for food & stretches.
Floor needs sucking up & downstairs.
Opiated bottom block.
Bleak House Omnibus
Unappealing weather view
Stuck inside immobile
Dentist shoes again

Two
Restless stairwell…up, down, not out, so in, to do, to do what…
Move bowels move…

Coming up three & entering the twilight zone of the week with some vim after 23 hours sleep. While productive the brain is candy floss when asked to plan or worry work. Therein lies a clue to imbalance in my daily routine of non-book production when the contact is there, the competitions are there, the talent is there, but the workforce is idle. Money is no incentive so what will resolve this tension? Pure hard slog seems the only satisfactory answer. Office first thing, diary and correspondence, edit and tweak, letters of intro, research, deliver…sounds great!
Just feckin do it, then.

Sunny outside now. Why do you remain inside recapitulating. You could sweep the path, collect some sticks and pick up the dogshit. What a thoughtful inquiry. It’s still too cold & unready. Sun in: indoor guilt declines into late afternoon, outdoor guilt shivers by the coal shed.

All I want is a dump upstairs…dug out avocados, 2012 : Soggily One Summer, just add dialogue. Same rut in a different way – how could it be that much different? Prior to that writing course, after the first, the good one. Check back, research deeper, context, significant incidents (outings, visits etc). Nostalgia is the memory of pain. Once again context. Here is not here.

Arnold Foney’s wedding dubris…
In the morning bout of sleep envisioned what my eyes would pick up during a walk to the corner of Ash Lane. The last time Patsy walked me before the illness. Was it that winter she took bad on my foot? It’s all so achronological, the years, the months, the weeks of retreat. Does it matter anymore? Enough to write it down, go through it all over? But as a springboard…?

M
onday, March 21, 2016
Where was i? What is new?
Seven and the eagle has landed smoothly in the Hollywood Bowl – That’s new old.
Check competition dates
File contacts, diarise, plot & check…
Cheroot, little frantic sparrows frolic in the hedge, wild tittering, manic feeding frenzy, newborn little family chokes you up. Dogs of my life, characters and settings, whens and where’s, who’s and what’s, how’s and why’s.
Dogman remembers
Summoned by Barnes at six-thirty, duly released for morning toilet duties and garden inspection and debriefing before back to bed.
Cavaliers & Roundheads says The Sun
Tory civil war will not end well.
Austerity ends thus
An Interregnum
Where’s the new model?
The Eton Rifles versus The Kingsmen. Louis, louis…I gotta go. Here comes the Sun as something of the dark comes over the radio – 8.15 (a time that will go down in history).
Listen, listen…

Out for a breathe, a word to Paws over the bin, she fills me with hope in fate and chance, being in the right place at the right time. All you got to do is be in the right place watching, waiting, preparing the feast fire, inviting the guests, reaping the plaudits, groping the peasants, being lucky cos you made it this far. So far, so good…so what?

Nine
Start the week
with a ban on refined sugar
opened the honey
moving slower already
somewhere somethings wrong

not done any work
of a practical nature
never make appointments you
know that you don’t keep
how can you make some headway
where do you begin?

as
you
walk out
in the garden
assume the olive chair
face the morning sun
mindful of the schism
spend awhile elsewhere
ten provides some clarity
go tear down dilapidated
old tired chicken townships
destroy what is not needed
gig for stolen dignity
time to dig down deep
replenish nurture
preserve
grow

11.51
Smell of dogshit brings out the biologist in you – primal urge to put shit on a stick. Examined it and still unsure if it’s the real McCoy. No matter. Lunchtime beckons as does the next installment of Tory self-harm and sacrifice. Burn baby burn. No Royal diversion this year apart from the old girl’s longevity. Two minutes to take off, fasten your ecstasy belts…
Fun for all the family!

Lunch in to warm – last night’s chicken & veg.
Flowing swimmingly along filling up the furnace
Deadlines flooding in on the spring tide – mild panic sets in.
Food first business later

2.06
Fed. Osbourne’s had it. Time to dust off the Hancock poem
Went out. Too cold. Came in.
Nap?
Beware the Odes of March! Cancel public engagements, photo opportunities, wear a stupid hat…giddy on the run.
Nap it was till five…
Tory bloodletting continues apace.

Ate fruit, remembered honey, what’s for dinner?
Fish Rissoles mayhap…

Tuesday, March 22, 2016
Just a bum.
Freezing on contact, scared to death, dark responses, bad responses, failed acid test, riding for a fall…ominous clusters. Corner at the top of the tower, where they put the mad, the late, the ones who need more time to settle. Bewildered & unhappy, an involuntary patient, there is no Eldorado, no reward. Nobody’s fault but mine, untrue; we are all in this together by default, never made the grade, never could, socially inbuilt ineptitude, drummed in from an early age, last boat leaving. Watching the bus get smaller, late again. Always waiting for a lift, mock gratitude, suspicious nature, victim of circumstance. To be this stupid! Seek and receive dejection, the familiar put down. Defeated, steadfast warrior bedraggled in the cold and wet, heading homeward, place of despicable safety, to lick wounds forever, not fit for purpose. Nihilistic cloak. On the outside of inside. Lost key to the highway. Easter before court appearance. Condemned to elsewhere always…

Tip for the day:
Thomas Crapper tickles you
Two to one on:
Ayr…
You get one third back
Waste of time & energy
Odds on favourite
Fresh fruit salad days
Running in the next one
At Fontwell

That was a lucid surge of pent up feeling. Smoke was coming from your ears. Only I can see that. Sat here prone and bleeding. Putting on scared puppy eyes as you brandish a long blade
Abnormal service resumes;
imperfect pandemonium;
sublime insecurity;
words sometimes write themselves;
you pause resist;
apprehension – fear or flight?; someone spills a tumbler; takes the pressure off; cuts the atmosphere in half. Do you believe your eyes? See where you are going with this? The question kills it stone dead. The storm is passed on somewhere else. Just that picture lingers. Contorted despair. Scar tissue ages. Memories lose vigour. Things move on whether you do or not.
Is that a wrap or a warp, man? Guess that’s life just supposed. He comes Eldorado…
sober reflections
clear spring morning sunshine
scar tissue lingers
mental pictures commingle
lucid surge pent up healing
Brussels hit, thirteen reported dead so far, airport and metro, total shutdown, reporters swarming, interviewing everything moving, chaos. Speculation: revenge attack, thus escalation, BH weekend disruption guaranteed, Osbourne gets lucky, or does he? Backlash from anti-euro brigade, blame security, border controls…Chaos thus ensues – Holy Moses!
Those which hangovers
Intend to destroy/ are intent on destroying
Are first driven mad
9.35
Death toll surely will rise; no trains in or out; none killed in the metro carriage – thus suicide bomber on train. Time for a fag. Still time for a fag after second visit to above; still life with sound effects; what is J up to for Easter; attain equilibrium and call L; how is K doing?; stuck in the middle, a rose twixt two thorns (autistic small arms licensed premises); verbal diarrhoea; cream off consciousness; launder dramatic writing; hang out in public; ticking crocodile next door; snappy volatile reptile; no Norbert again – this is turning into a movement.

10.35
Sully bigger & oft…sull is plough, sully is ploughing and to soil…sull is my word of the day. Dig it? Down the pathway to the shed for a sun to sit in. fresh turds glisten in clear morning light. Keep moving or get cold. More coffee pang. Come in, put some water on to boil, some to poach the yellowed haddock, an egg. Bung the black pudding in the oven for ten. Salad to go with…lunch is sorting itself. Time for elevenses (it being eleven).
Midday
Death toll ain’t coming down today, or tomorrow, or the day after that, or any day soon, in this unholy war. It aint over til it’s over & that’s why we are where we are. Easter is cancelled this year. Factors beyond my control, too humorous, numinous, subsuming us, to mention but three conspire against my morning shower. Accidental fonts reveal sun conscious haste to proceed. Therefore less speed yield. According to old saying. Secure you borders! The bogey man is coming.
Do not eat lentils in the dead of night lentils are due at dawn of day when time is right
do not eat lentils soaking overnight…

One
brings inaction; more bomb loop news; Osbourne in the house this afternoon; now is your opportunity – enforce a resignation. After my haddock feast the time nears for Napland.

7.22
Renewed my acquaintance with Tumblr – many mouths to feed
Brussels fall out: Osbourne slips under the radar with Uncle Ken’s help.
Deception’s tangled weave torn
Starter motor tragedy, not many dead
Sandwich & Chips to do the trick
Feeling oddly well, watch the cold mornings
A thousand poems to say only the one thing

W
ednesday, 23 March 2016
Ash dieback Wednesday dawns
Dishwasher on; coffee make believe; slept okay
Tariff check later; soon the bowel will move me to ascend the stairway to wetroom.
Competition dates, diary. Another shower, maybe later.
Easter shopping list
Whatever happened to Nobby?
Here come the birth pangs
Slow mountaineering, elongated rinse and dry – jobby done.
Seven already my life!

Ongoing chores remain
Random chronic gibberish
Work still in progress
Sprinkling oil untroubled
Water never overflows

9.45
Succumbed and posted. Urge resisted for about an hour. Waiting for Nobby; left a message for the cuz; who’s next? Gibborish? Fancy another roll up. Remember what the bad book says. Done a good bit, he misled, nay fibbed. Slow, slow, slowly does it…overcast mauve in for the day.
Provisions! Psychic message sent to provider – check by landline later to see if the message got through. You gotta serve somebody. Heaven helps those who help themselves, sonny boy.
Fresh fruit salad & Greek Style Yoghurt
Boris on the Finance Committee.
Ground to a halt.

11.15

In the kichen
Red faced
post fruit salad,
or is it
something else
some sinister minister ?
pause while
Blind panic ensues
In the background
Desiccating coconuts
Most august body sitting

Parliamentary
Ghoulish Square Dance Committee
Chairperson up Boris’s bum –
is this love or confusion
one experiences?

Stuck in full car park
Striking exaggerated poses
Helpful demeanours
Express insincere concerns
Sporting helpful demeanours

Midday
The day shift files in
Smoke billows
Wheezy guffaws
Chesty mutterings
Wheezing amorphous mucus
Prone to exaggeration

Lunchtime
Cold hop
Scotch egg,
Is that a poem passing by?
Rearranging words
Arbitrarily
For no
apparent reason
manifest purpose
slant rhyme or
apparent reason

sugar cube

icky medicine
fat little soldier

losing the plot after a morning of it.
got my hits – now what?
Pinball, half-arsed dump, and Beloved
William Black in nowadays Hackney

3.22
Equilibrium:
Suck the floor spotless
Above and below
An historic break through!
Victory for Common mess

T
hursday, 24 March 2016
…we pick up on that:
‘”Victory of Competence” – now just what do you mean by that, or, rather, did you mean by that; Was it just that you could be bothered to suck, that you could suck before, that you were unable to suck before? In which case we would like to know for how long? Have you, indeed, really tried? Are you getting a headache now writing just writing this down?’
Henry relented. All this for a post – come on, you know it’s just the need to be seen, to be heard, and acknowledged with the press of a button,
or, maybe once every so often, a message; and, you never know, you might see something good, it might be just right for you.
What the hell either way, this isn’t for real, and neither are you whenever I chose to switch you off on this electronic gadget.
Inside a pornographer’s browser – thanks, Spike.
‘…satellite of love
sits at tip of your finger
you saucy nancy
tickling your fancy
light as a feather
lithesome leather dew nuzzled
down under eiderdown.
O! Henry you are the one
slipping your way in here
like a camel’s nose
under the flaps of a desert.
Alimentary, my dead loved one.
Welcome to Necropolis!
Here all your fears are seen as real.
The rest is mere trifling.
Welcome to your private hell!
It’s just your drawers I’m rifling
Queue romantic interlude
Take my hand you’re a
stranger in paradise…’
So, Blind John whiled away time
waiting for the milk
maid to relieve him of his burden.
Shedding light on mattress…’

Spoke to the cross at modest length – Easter duties jobby done.
O! moon of Alabama…

Meantime spent farting
about on Twitter,
watching stats & likes,
avoiding accursed shower.
Flower is the answer.
Leaf the inspiration.
Bloom provides original.
Work till you cahones drop off,
synechdouchally.
Punster!
We press on regardful that…
It’s Maundy Thursday
We must love one another
or there’ll be trouble
tomorrow morning after
a heavy night on the tiles
awaiting cold spring rainfall
selected leaf out
extra special attention
chosen at random…
please allow me to
introdouche myself
man of well fanned haste.

Early lunch of pie & chips. Is there salad leftover? Top up what’s there.
First ignite your oven.

7.45
Shower & sleep
Watching Jim Al Kaeda –
Beginning of the Universe
in just fifty-eight minutes.
Phew!
Some going
Kebabs for supper…or wee smalls.
Cheap jibe born of ingratitude.
Night

Friday, 25 March 2016
Up six, fruitless stair climbs, pulled front bedroom curtains
Sun shines in fresh galley,
open back door wide,
air stale room of night.
Low on blow and sleep,
smoked many roll ups yester
Bowels will move, love will come, here comes the dogness.
Foot ballet dancer hocus pocus by focus
Ladodala
Dodaladudala
Duda
La-La-la-la-la-la
Laah
La
Doo-da…

Divine daily dump deposited; washing bundled and despatched; front room pinball discrete island dusks revisited from Palm Sunday by 83 yr old feminist (Betty Friedman?); paid scant attention, ran a mag she did– Elle, Ms, Home & Verger; scant attention ends with fat couple enjoy car trouble; opened the last closednwindow, churlish to proffer glib assistance, intervene in big end strife. Man says scowling, ‘What happened to the change I left in here?’ She says nothing, you suspect scratch cards and easter eggs (frankly, she looks the type; he’s more lager & kebabs). Time to go down; left big window open, airing musty bragging room; drank fizzy codeine prepared pre-climb; washing machine churns & whirrs, 40 minute quickishwash…lyrical wax piano jars on deaf ears. Whole lottle rumblin goin on out there. Big bang aftermath. Stones roll into Havana, Cuba after Obama tangos, smiles & rocks out while Brussels gleefully explodes. PIP discourse: assessment issues. Call me old chestnut. How very dare you!

All a bit too forced on this extra ornery holy day.
Don’t get hung up on it, it’ll shine when it shines.
Out at eleven when it warms up
infernal vocal
fake jazz baroque pearl diva
nails it up in one
sacrificial holy cows
coming home to roast
slow chicken dinners
wet Sundays in spring
sporting sprouting broccoli
in handbags full of lipstick

ornery sniper
phlox magenta fingernails
telescopic sites
target hatless in Brussels
grey neutralised citizen
dragged away still limp

The End

Nuneaton Done Made Me

• 

The call to adventure passed Nuneaton unnoticed shaking a severed head, after what you said and done when you were out sneak thieving sun I saw you turn away in shame, pretending you done looking for blessings to count, working on a wake up listings, chambermaiding. Sunlight on spring sill brings shivers.

Evening post reports of cross potty talks underway as I scoff dawn at the drastic shambles. Soon we go play toxic games. Enter first the snoozy dragoon all guns blazing at a cardboard cut out of a chimney sweep pinned to a whitewashed wall. Rambling off somewhere. Country lane perhaps to Samarkand behind the horse trough. Good a place as any.

Silas Mamba knows to minds his lip, tip his hat, as she passes on mumbling sly asides to an imaginary friend. Other wise a rainy April, Storm Hannah spins above, no money to show, no heavenly penny, call me Mary Evans for kicks, she sighed.

And we the sea blasted Bewley Brothers. All shook up and nowhere to go but sea. Rambling on down the Chicken Shack with Champion Jack looking for new roots I guess. Sixties radio child gently comes unstuck. Thinks in jingles and soundbite tropes. See drifting off occur. Turn up the heat. Go back to bed. Shut out the Day. Weather out the Storm

how these three met who knows not eye. Assume the air the earth the sky, the rest is all man made excluding women in name only. Lingo Lab burnt down…

Countdown to Hallow’s Eve
Day 1
08:58 11/04/2019
Brexit put back to November, hastening in a summer of spite and vitriol, local elections,
europen elections, Tory leadership elections, General Elections–The works. all will go
swimmingly i am assured by obscene green men from the bottom of the garden.
Bowels moved well. Sunny Day. Best get out a bit…show willing

14:55 11/04/2019
fell asleep till midday, got wrecked for breakfast; why not put the feet up till
November, pea shoot the freezing breeze, late night shopping in Brussels yeilds
truffles in for tea…Assange in the dickery dock, seditious wikileaker hounded
out of latin quarter squat, self promoting Aussie blond facing trumped up rap,
stridently denies
that as a youngster he torched a neighbour’s cat,
review Andrew O’Hagans
observations of the Assange show when he was holed up in Norfolk
sounds a shady customer. Is that why he is so white? Ask Pilger

15:16 11/04/2019
yellow butterfly spotted
round about midday
while sat here at this table
doodling
out the corner of my eye

a flittish jiffy
lime yellow
now i think of it
over by the back window

Just do not feel like sitting out
or hobbling round
listening instead
to people talking nothing but exit

From urban french epic tableux
through mock hollywood blockbuster
in a salubrious remise in Amiens &
the tender silhouette of a
docile spaniel twitching
it has been
on reflection
a hectic day on the BBC Twenty Four Hour News
We must be out of our minds:
a reasonable conclusion lacking all conviction
Day 2
09:27 12/04/2019
woken by the cold, frozen deep red tulip trembles, sweats
probably a coffee.
three and a half hours sleep disputes the detailed dawn
bowels and bimbos gallivant in crock mockery
did the dishes best I could as ever
fed the dog somethin
shall I go back to bed
PS. Got the milk in. Postit to No one
peeling off the smudged fridge door
Food works at such times
helps hapless drowsy babbler up

today i vow ablute, maybe risk a shower.
Where there’s a Will. Will to Purge
Grey squirel terrorises birdland
Giant turd in water dish
culprit caught red handed
lovely day emerging nonetheless

10:15 12/04/2019
had a scrub and changed
keks and trousers soon to follow
threw out bread for soul survivors
of a bitter frost. walk a long road
to a stern encounter.

impervious to perves, Gardener’s Quest , go seek & you shall find
what is beyond the shed. Too cold to be arsed for. Circles of virtue
invariably describe themselves. Assange granted the freedom of the city
of London! A win is a win after all it seems. Ideas free one craves
stimulation. Please apply within. Office of Possibilities shuts up
early for the weekend. see no, hear no, speak no…
chess is against the computer
what to do with the chicken?
frittered away, or did not get the point? Missed out again. never showed up
so no show Friday–not going out. Noisy vans with ladders.
eleven years a blog! lewd cheers & lumbago yips. Silent repartee
Fcuk the fuckin’ chicken. Play for one non starter. Mosspot stone aphid, virginia creep ass
Sleepy suburban dryad.

Day Tree
09:00 13/04/2019
sunburst dawn through bare copse, migraine in the night, toe throbbing tended to first thang after dog and dump.
cold high over baltic ports calls shots; time for record review, vinyl bricks & mortar bores; Schumann gets a foot in.
too cold to rocknroll, to dumb to fly; smoke tabs, wait and seethe,

there will never be another one like you…until the next one, and the next
writhing on the hook, a knight in an old fashioned book, doing the sad
old bastard waltz, One two three. one to three. Won. Beach silhouette. thinking butterflies
poor part of the beach. unequal before the sea inferior demeanour making a spectacle
putting on airs & graces, not the way it’s done. square pegs in square holes. No choice is a choice to not choose.
the rest is junk and tactics. little voices howl. deafening cacophony. come in the water’s ugly.
we will take good care of you. Auntie Violet, Sister Moon.
Renown Pictures presents ‘Port of Escape’ with Strident Piano and Googie Withers (!)
Saturday Morning Matinee Idol
Disappointed by the Failure of Dead Air: A play for Vases, Phoebe Dawkins went on the game and never looked back
irtue is its own reward, Opined Squiddlt Diddle prone languid on the bean bag.
I was droning ’bout the past…trying hard to make it last When did i lose control When did i lost control
Eighties Alternative Realities remembered on R4 Xtra. Programmes i missed on the radio. Too busy watching telly
maybe a bit of John Peel, a session by the Mekons, whatever happened to them, could google it suppose.
Got mixed up with that Howard de Vito, Henry Cow, Curved Hair Living outside Heidelberg smoking pot with
Kevin Ayers who smuggled it over the French Border. Bribed the guards with Marmite. meanwhile back
at the beeb. A spoof of Brief Encounter performed by Bold Colonials ectracting piss from wartime classics. How very Dare They.
Tony Blur seeks Susan Sondheim burning cross next door. Goodness Gracious Me! These chappies are quite funny.
Put them on the Telly, Chumley Put the rest on Channel Four. We finish this crumble through the mumbles with Rambling SiD
Rumpo…

Midday ( and all swell ) bulging belly ups scream for more. washeduponseventiesplasticshores (Sandy was the sixties)
Ripping it out and burning it up…The Rock Island Line is a mighty fine line. Chess (crawled back to 1193 after yesterday’s
grumpy pique at housebound slavery, decreasing circles of efflent drying from my gash…) live as lived in gloop and flaw
yes you really did that one now try and tell it dare. Egg self on, cajole, persuade, manoeuvre an advantage on the bluff, and sweep
down on your quarry…Any Questions? Religions are all death cults, blue oysters, moonies, man on a stick mobs, diggers, ranters,
hoodies…let a thousandflowerswilt. The end of the nigh is orange…
Listen to Emily’s smokey burr, she could call the snooker.

Day Four

15:29 13/04/2019
sat out and felt the left hip twinge, came in and took some heavies, door slams, shouts and silence, William’s syndrome licks in
handy for the jazz ear, sound of shushing water, growling stomachs, air in the back of the throat, blows out sharp effs and bees,
turn it up to the max, scream your bleeding head off, better out than in, soloing in the meadow, what gets filtered comes out here,
water trickles over grey brown stone, a wet bald squirrel once, now become a rock for us to ponder when we take the time

Bored an opponent into submission, farted slowly, left the room to air

15:40 13/04/2019
Greying over thicker now late afternoon, three good hours left to thrive before tonight begins with a hopeful look to
see what’s on, pulling the blinds, maybe light a candle, brood over a wasted day when nothing came and nothing went.
unspeakably bored, stretch improving muscles, turn over and ignite.

dream of a wealthy blind man building a cricket pavilion for a prodigal son called Luke
grey abstract too much puff (how small acts of up yours foster nasty habits) looping
in the past, snap out. film new pastures, same colours mind, make use of light & shade
portray a haliborange railroad rusting under desert sun, lifeless but for a butterfly
resting on a penguin on a busted hoarding that reads upside down: ‘Guinness makes you…’
Baby screams in hospital linen cupboard. Voices in the corridor pushing squeaky trolley

Hungarian accent MAN whispers,

‘I told you to oil it, Edmund’

Edmund says he did, Sluice Room explodes into life. Four am wash. Door opens. Two nurses, one smiley, one serious. Green one smiley
Blue one stern. Rank & File.

‘That wheel needs oiling. It woke the baby.’ Says the blue nurse.
‘i’ll see to it straight way, that is’
Blue nurse smiles down at the label on the toe of the body on the trolley.
‘As soon as possible, Mr Yardley.’
‘Yes Nurse Pringle, after we drop off Mister Berry ‘ Yardley pauses to bow and clear his throat
Edmund and Mister Yardley head off down the corridor dead slow toward a sign pointing right
at the end that reads ‘Morgue’ in dodgy flashing lights.
‘I’ll looky in, Missy Yardley’ says Nurse Dreyfuss, in syruppy mint julep tones. Yardley slowly turns and slinks away in to the dark.
nb colours of nurses uniforms
in 1959…

a mobile turns under a ray of fanlight from the corridor, from its strings hand milk bottle tops moulded
into orbiting craft and a matchstick horse and rider. the screaming baby now gurgles and pukes.

the toucan appeared from behind a ballooning fold of uterine gut, this is the big one lads brace yourselves. The penguins huddle together on a
blood clot. the lights went out and the chamber flooded with light and steaming
warm fluid, above a chasm opened and a huge blade cut a wide white sky, the knife retracted and a hairy hand reached in,
grabbed the long stringy body by the legs, reaching under and whoosh i was blind, the sound of veinous pumping replaced by
urgent voices sounding serious and focussed. next think i was on my back. scissors snipping, a strangled feeling in my guts. i shat.
‘You dirty little…’ said Nurse Pringle
the door opens and Nurse Dreyfuss slips in shoeless and sinously grooves across the floor.
‘Let’s get naked, Baby’, she whispers in its ear’.

the drunken voices grew closer, it was getting dusk, he was getting cold. At the cross they pulled up.
‘Piss call, lads. make it snappy’. under the lip of the ditch he watched the water rain down,

quicksilver
clarity begins at
home
where we all look first
for example

Day 4 again…
06:53 14/04/2019
re re-birthing first thing pre dump, snot full, find a cause, fall in love, make a book; have a laugh
verticals beat horiontals hands up surrender to light; 20c by the end of Lent, going down from
the mountains, strolling through olive groves, ignoring the wall; cold yet out, in for a brew. mild bout
of ought to’s avoided for now. i came for a game. who wants to play? in the corridor, morgue to the left
disgrace to the right. Get stuck to the spot, Who made that happen. Pointless talking to the dead kills the time of day
That’s left sorted out. What was that vow you took when nobody was looking. Something shiny, bottle tops
A boozy sea of wonder, set in a spangled heaven, the gas of macabre laughter, mimicked in the round,
vibrant bull and bluster, incandescent sound, out your face dystopia, crashing to the ground, this must be what
paradise looks like, sneak out before you’re found. Down the stairs by moonlight, heaven round the bend, spinning
in the garden, dread deliverance, hide under the duvet, ignore them at the door, just like Pete down the Wheatsheaf
when we asked him to unlock the door. He was gone in a twelve month, summer came around, going away to Ireland
left without a sound. Stories come to me in couplets. ababab. getting back into the moment. stoned out of my tree.

09:38 14/04/2019
Quit while you’re behind, they say. You can never win. One more fish head in the dustbin. One more beggar at the door.
Blistering self inflicted wounds, fur of the dog that bit you. Who’s who down the human zoo
so much depends on your point of view: crowded mountains, empty vales, sheep brought down for summer grazing
While their offspring get slaughtered at Easter. Blood Sacrifice unites the tribe. Have a slice of cake.

Lammy on the March calling out Fascist Bully Boyz
a thousand shoots arising. Mustard foliage on old oak tree. Not the memories. Floor sucked by Whitehouse Gardener
unease in the ether, smell of woodland smoke, charcoal pyres glow, down in dinglye dell, where the bluebells grow

12:18 14/04/2019
once round the front lawn & fast back in, thrity one giant steps, four hours twenty, three stops and a lean or two.
stretching arms. rotating limbs, defrosting winter, warm I with the world, heat and light fantastic. Paint.

17:15 14/04/2019
no. Slept catch up sleep after pasta. Masters Golf : Tigger pulls it off; step outside in dreams. Inventory novel. anti fake fact
as it is. on going. wink in progress. Black van toots farewell. Sark needs a dairy. McKewan’s got a new one out. is that how you spell it.
Bye bye baby dont make me cry. Painter on the lawn. milk curdles fear prompts fetch thoughts. VD all the rage. Aboriginal icons.
Riffs of Sissyfuss. Who lives in a head like this?

Hunt on for Rude October, glowing by the fire. open hearth surgery. six months ahead of yourself. Make hay while the sun shines.
Mend the roof in Winter. Got the message. Last summer came suddenly. Overnight. What happened? Where were you? Disproving
immobility. Upstairs playing chess. Reading god knows what. Walked too far to fast. Tried to break out too quick, People just got
uglier. Pushed them all away. became part of the furniture. overlooked by wasps. that’s who.

Green pruning scissors buried under surgical leggings. Run the risk of injury.

Day Five?

10:17 15/04/2019
In came the milk. Out went our Barney. Cacophony ensues. Go to school to get locked up (should have stayed in the garden
shed) Isolated for as long as it takes. Excluded from polite society. Banished.
Pensioners bus card. Fetch the dog. dog comes in of it’sown accord.
fourty four steps from shed to chair, repeat as oft as cheroot. Aim. Record. Train Perform
Revise. Improvement. Repetition. Review. Permit. Forget. Miss. Regard. Conject. Decide.
Invent. Trial. Explode. Regret. Withdraw. Concede. Retreat. Rethink. Confuse. Collapse.
Water. Revive. Explore. Expound. Evince. Expunge. Erase. Turnover. Sleep. Awake. Recall.
Discharge. Consume. Digest. Defer. Connive. Emit. React. Remorse. Devise. Construct. Destroy
Depart. Return. Repeat ad nauseum. a Museum piece. Lifejunk. Habit. Routine. Purpose, Select.
Aim. Fire. Hit. Freeze. Conceal. Divert. Create. Escape. Migrate.

The one who invented the crucifix had no idea where it would end up. Was it art made up of
what’s around or guts and wood to make fire, some sort of tool to get other things done. A mere
device dreamt up by the clever ones who thought cannibalism barbaric,

Things happen in Rosmore although you would never believe they did. Cycling up from Letter at dusk
across the yapping terrier vale up the winding mount with the nick nack shop and there you are. In it.
Rosmore, A Tjunction with loathsome giant hog of a church looming discretely in the way. Opposite
a bar, Kitties, that is, John-Jos, that is who knows who is not in the know. Courteous in an inbred heathen
kind of way, not unlike their cattle. Jimmy Shand was a favourite on the ghetto blaster, and gigantic ballroom and lounge
did funeral parties from the giant hoghouse.

Work surface epiphany of angle poise arabesque crustacean leant even handed on the bevelled curve
‘Thought your were getting a big shop in before the Easter Crush’
‘Jesus, Easter creeps up fast’
Turn over a tundra head.
Voilin plays anguished episode fit for an early James Mason
still came the sounds above. Must have been a late one
back in the Middle Ages. Eurospat. Thirty years knees up.
Steps along the way to here. Violin lapses into post frenzy jerks
What is to be done?
ought to…kill that violin: switch over to what’smine’smeouns
dog returns for noonday prowl
remember me, a voice rings out
14:51 15/04/2019
Lady Hazelmere’s toilet took place between the hours of two and four, mornings and afternoons, and bore
little fuit–sometimes walnuts and others raisons.

17:08 15/04/2019
real time verbatim ran out of time heart beating faster clock in the red,gone to my head–had to lie down, listen to
uptown religion, hanging the sparrow, catching the pigeon, sat out awhile, after the goldrush, wooden birds wing
washed up on the grass, cascading primrose, overflows the rim, flies on the laurel, waxy bright shiny, black tree still
barren, amazing the sky, that’s all for now folks, time passes by.

trim beard sort hair shower change — & that’s an hors d’oeuvre
oui mon capitaine!
Au reviour

sketchy progress, off & on, bits & bobs…

17:59 15/04/2019
Bong! Landlords get long due notice, Home Sec fears for his kids at night, climate protesters occupy the Dilly
trouble brewing green tea in the streets, farty bikes sprout wings and fly, more rat soufflet vicar? Self portrait
in parsley window (horisontal hb), bears slight likeness to an old man with a beard in a hat in the shade.
tried some left handed : loads more i missed. Programme about waiting. Awake. Waiting dreams seldom recalled. Think.

Salmon apparently
Broccoli, Tatties
not more potatoes!
Notre Dame Ablaze
Everybody gets burnt
Sometime…

19:46 15/04/2019
Mckewan bookends the day, Notre Dame guttedd by flames. the lengths some people go to
AI & Moi, I am an autonome. Who are you? Long tailed tit. UniChal 2nd Semi. Wake me up
before you gargoyle. Intermittent fire spouts, cargoes, car-bys, condensed into an hour
goings on all over the world, giant genetic network, all goes up in smoke, in carbonic cloud

21:20 15/04/2019
Tintern Abbey round this time. Malt’n’Hops. Barley wine. Long ago & faraway one Easter or
Early Whitsuntide

Day Six

07:02 16/04/2019
start in the dark. bright orange pot plant, horizon vague. flat, grey. expansive, dusty. after the flicker show…
just dust remains. No visits from beyond. Hiking Hibblesvania, sub rural backwater, all talk is of longtail tits
This is sleaze and quietude, hedges sprout apace. insights are inventions, stoke your inner light. Ought to do time:
ablute, clip beard, get changed then…think of food, play chess, smoke warheads. Mutually assured reduction
to shadows in a fire. Television eats. Radio compels. Find out what you are missing. Community of Holes.
Living seemly lives. Annihilation Activists lose fifty of their number caught playing with the traffic. Antibodies.
Every waking hour schedules abreaction. Glossing over chasms. Time marches off. Drumbeats on the river. Tingle
in the toe. Shake a leg self-portrait, hidden under hair and hat, steal away in shadows, slip away unseen. Courting
no controversy. Do the daily dog. Dr Jazz sings a cantata, in the costume of a monk. Pretend you are someone else.
What a way to go. Evidently stuck.

11:18 16/04/2019
play & diversion, listen, pause, switch off, do zilch, empty, sluggish, sit…
immersion found sweeping up and down the path, counting up dead leaves
expelling ear shaped pasta. Made a BlT to eat and ate it. Easter hols loom big.
Cold sat out
Came back in
Still no wiser
Path well swept
Saviour friendly

Day Seven

06:40 17/04/2019
Rembrant soundtrack ruined life for me; deadly dull production; heart on its sleeve magnolia
Mist morning down south, mountain ash leaves show, saw no ghosts by the shed,
smelt no woodbines by the door, sound and vision not what it was, feel no wonder
pulsing through, can ghosts see eachother? Thought experiment before crash
Heavy shit before seven. Lighten up why dontya. Constrained by onus inevitables
forgot how to play. What’s good should always be the first up. Wow my bottom’s
working. Fountain of wisdom squirting. Downstairs minus light. Intrepid plonker
Know no one will pick you up. Longsufferers fade away. Not this chugalug. Listening
out for woodcocks consenting in the hedge. Open window policy pays off. Stock doves
mimic refuse vans reversing. Too far in is too far out. Notre Dame at Easter. Quasimodo
rings old tom warmly by the throat. Now, now, there you go again. Charles Laughton
camps it up. Jamaica Inn revisited. Sir Alexander Korda. Jack Warner of the British
Empire. Laughton got an Oscar. Lon Chaney played the Werewolf.

07:31 17/04/2019
Bears wake up slow to pure bad news, not my problem missus, got a life to lead,
things to do, people to…no people to meet. No society. Boss says no such thing.
And bob’s your uncle whoosh it’s gone. Tree sparrows active. Old phlogiston
of consolation. Chocolate soldiers, Bite all heads off while no one’s looking.
Saw her do it behind their backs. Never let on. A tryst based on the grounds
for blackmail. The womanly manly thing to do. Enlightened chivalry the thread
to follow. Cheesecloth mindset, stupid loons, really nice, artificial. Underneath a
three year old clinging to the past. Crazy spirit world. Beyond the veil the camera.
Same old stories told new ways. Tossed around in a salad bowl. Dressing of
choice. Fakemanship. A true craft. Corrack makar. Pitch and Wicker, Fish and Ships
Elsewise for egg sample. High Seas roller comes a cropper, doomed to
fuck about to Wagner, top end of the market. Each reach has its niche.
Cynicus Homunculus is still born of a Babooshka herself descended from
a chainsaw molecule hewn from a chip off the old block

Tripping on old Wallpaper, feel everso like a walk, check it out shortly. Behold the man who lost his mind
to childhood. Enabling and abetting the slightest chance of perch

08:24 17/04/2019
Sun breaks through the morning haze. Blue marble and wayward dog end greet the dybbuk sun.
Little chirps from the rhododendrum induce a good stretch of the neck. Bit too early for it
yet. Were there microbes on the blue flannel. It fell on the floor. Under the pisspot. Soon.
Half a leg of lamb eight notes not bad. Fresh mint, new potatoes, fellowship somehow seems unlikely.
Tracy Thorne and suburban porn cracking open eggs, clashing over Quality Street, hot knives
& Hot Cross Buns. Flashes of great insight fleet across the face of the paraclete. Wordburst
warm showers, warbles and pringles, warm rabbit droppings pepper sheepdog hillsides, crisp
white sheets spanking, gusty breezes, microdots. Slow tsunami ebb tide drains gull rich bungalow
bay. Low wide window sill, to sit and watch. Short steep asphalt drive, gulf stream favoured palms
a concrete toadstool, carp pond, lawnsprayer. Little rainbows, prismatic light. Mood french polish,
lemon, airy, dustless rug twine, intricate, microcosmic. Pad round loose limbed in crushed cotton
light soled sandals. Contrast on woodgrain, wood knot, wood sinew. Run paps along contour with grain
to whorl hole, finger it, glovely. So sensate saunter sensitized to sloth. Letting water flow
falling freely over when it warms enough to drip dry. Arcadian revelry gambols as in wheretofore
concernless of all one eye on the tide. Four hours to Dieppe as a foot passenger. To turn up at your door
and be made unwelcome I find unforgiveable. Turn up like holiday makers. leave like refugees. Same
whole world over, Flights of fancy, wild figaries, effacing fashion, up your in the old fashioned way.
alright for a while but for a life a little samey. Brag grab shag drag nag bag beggar. Banquet of Barbed bitter
biddy biding time. Bopperation Barbarossa. Holy Roman Mackerel! Churning swell uplifting whalesback
drumlin. Tides out. Float on blow hole thermal under blue paper moon.
Issownleapepermoonswingingoveracardboardsee…

09:33 17/04/2019
Did i say i washed your arsehole? How remiss if so. Walkies in a jumper rumoured in the Bubble.
Wildfowl press gangs cling on tight for vantage points. Lamp posts planted out for such occasions.
Will he or won’t he? Give over or give out. Clinking bottles, green day bin swoop. Spate of Bank
Holidays to follow. Recycling in the night. What about the workers? Worraboutem! Ten a penny
when a penny scarce. Time of plenty fat cat gentry. Taken in the night. Abducted. Burn me up Dotty
Satans got a tamp on. Mobs of Homuculi distressed by wholesale slaughter. Burning down the Pound Shop
Sharks & Racketeers. Prey on the gullible. Kid the rest.

10:35 17/04/2019
showed willing. did some chores. a brown bird rushed me on the ramp. put out half baked bread.
assange derange farrage garage sandwich fischer crueldom. hazy sun chivvies on. all rest down the workhouse
fair days pay for a fair days shlepp.

16:01 17/04/2019
Mea Tulpa, mea minima tulpa, fig box of the mind, imaginary stone trapped in paper bag, poor chess player, unfocussed
muzzy headed, birdsong, Liz Tonks

17:01 17/04/2019
re-entry into contemporary society, Little Dorritt box set, juicy baddies, nicens bumblers, shrewd underclasses. Follow the Wye
to its origin. Pumlumon sleeps at the heart of Cambria soused in cwrw and sheep. Little Dorrit encounters Venice.
Salutary tales of redemption and hubris fill the thickened air. Gnat fall descends, lost my voice through silence.

20:01 17/04/2019
Pork chops, broccoli, carrot, apple, cheese—a meal in itself
dunkelheit, extinction gaining traction, stuck to trains and jezza’s garden fence
drew some birds, poser robin knows you know
trial amd error chess

07:57 18/04/2019
Day Six or Eight
We’ll get round to it later
White wicca maunday,
ninety three lucky recipients
wrapped in cotton wool
budding monarchists gifted
submit submit and play the game
swallow back bile
behave appropriately
commensurate with your
given circumstance
strive harder study shite
it may come in handy one day
shedloads of puzzles
handfuls of shrapnel…

08:09 18/04/2019
one simply gets bored after. Easter clean up heaven thwarted? What for you may ask. Personal
hygiene is seldom if ever funny. Also next to godliness, it is claimed

Day Twelve

07:13 21/05/2019
Now.Where was One. Festooned with Mondays off. Whitsun coming round the bend.
Gloucester blinded on the sly, Malt’n’Hops devotion, Go see Jon Tom after all these ears
–mayhap cunning no go trap. Danger lurks in cold familiar faces
older than their years. In for a penny: in for a punnet

11:03 21/05/2019
wall to wall sun brings out we builders from our thermal lairs
Find Little Nell well stuffed after sausage & small beer
knows how to cheat at cribbage
The colour of water perturbs us, as for the shapes!
Sublime purple candyfloss sickly sweat
spilt acrid boiling fat, overheated drain smoke, egg & tomato flytraps
four giant fallen women cackle when the towel drops
oily petrels stumble aimless slippery over ostrich stones
bent forward crouched like hunched watchmakers
here we are all beached till Uncle John
picks us up at teatime and we can all go toilet safely
scrutinising pebble gnats

clean out of ink.

loneliness is a cloak that you wear

so the phone goes: once again WITHELD, speaker silenced, wary caller has worn it out calling, crossed out excuses sit beside her on the stuffed cat . Only fifteen minutes are left to decide on who gets it today. Get it on…

the game is truly on , come twelve it will all be over, the culprit broke cover, doubts I know only too well. Yet I am a liar she told last time. Why would that be so? I asked

so now we can begin the game of four dimensional chess (sea below)

a cup of tea is made & how are yous exchanged on speak up mobiles till prose regains a rhythm a tone and pause beats, laughs must soon follow suit, scroodling greenfinch cackle turns swift to fishwife smokey gannet, a piercing pain in the rear right hemisphere warns me of the bends. La Profonde Madeleine ( was that her really name?) crumbled when she heard that Fantine’s been found bald and toothless in the shrubbery. Terrible, I replied while castling.

The word cunt was created by Norwegians.
The highly esteemed OED
wouldn’t have it in its pages for yonks
and even today
the dictionary describes it as
the most taboo word
in English.
Norsemen said kunta and the
Danes said kunte, as did ninth-century
Germans, though not, seemingly,
in anger or spite.
Apparently, the first known use of the word in
English was in 1230, when an
Oxford street was named Gropecunt Lane

Braindead by two thirty, too cold out there
for enfeebled wimps like i

Laxy fox jumps over bcq gonk…y a w n

Yesterday’s salad defrosts on the sidewalk,
four day old stilton, baked tatty cadaver, fried lightly in oil,
done to a turn, one of the fried eggs got off less lightly, slightly burnt.

If you’re drifting on an empty ocean get nervy…
mememememememememememememememe

Scott Walker was spectacularly famous, I am told.

Jacquerie

dawn was

a michaelmas dawn. at season’s end.
last gig IN bURghFORD coat tails of rabble rousers.
natural
born leaders planted up the garden path– another reason not to do it. peer reviewed abuse, professional smart alecs beat me to the nub of it. what indeed of what. why bin?
three act one act play. orange chocolate silver. carbolic soap,
pungent beeswax gagging over perfumed towels,
to cover up.
how it was thought springs unprovoked is the magic missing moment.
macrons adorn marmosets.
no words for it. dog waits to pounce on junkmail. got my card! a weeks hard labour. work this aint. repetitive dross syndrome.
michel and the giant glue gun. Roald Dahl’s venal Long John’s. dodgy adults roam the earth, loathsome kinder follow, tread not upon my greensward or I’ll make a cup of tea
thus was all it said

jolus

Backstories

roll up roll up come hear come watch

home spun
turtles winnow cut knot trim
perform fable sponge botch in seven pieces
Reassemble that conundrum·

Crass squib pamphlet 
Holes as big as parts
Impossible after breakfast
human traffic jam…

Degas found in empty overnight suitcase sniffing turps. Must be that time of year again. Winslow Boy met with stark comeuppance running for the bus — flattened by stray Aero from Thunderbird Two sought comfort in episode three of That Whacko world of Dalrymple Minor while wrapped up warm in draughty turret dreaming of louche volcanoes rumbling deep: 

world is burnin’ hope it don’t burnaway

Flower Due

We are real drab and we are not going to take it anymore, say the Scoop-Johnsons, slithering grey turkey crown breast flesh down voracious gullets. At it hammer and thongs. Peepul turnaway, show pink bottoms up puffed, weeping bitterns ears resound with caustic woe is wees…
Not so fast said slow, lurk before you leap, drowsy caricature fat brother grunts approval
—Shurrup belly up pipes up for Sloppy Seconds.
Innah middle of a muddle muddah bruddah whereforearthou?
Gone out.
That’s it. Slipping off on the quiet.
Twenty minutes there and twenty back.
Just for a packet of Guards
Then we find we fade into dance, oblivion and sleep. Though up roaming, running taps, urinating, waiting for the feeling, the urge to release, to clamber up the steps carved out of dead wood to the artificial light, constant as artillery.
Let at first light blinds open to reveal comic ravens
clutching awkward on the wire, fend off lesser magpies
vying for the best veiw of the rats that disporate from the fastfood shop row.
Rich pickings the hope on this centennial of the perennial UK soldier.
I digressed into bells and bugger all but a mute review.
Mapledurham, Old Tom takes the biscuit.
Summoned by smells of sage and onion,
chicken dinners starring the Clitheroe Kid.
Carol Ann Duffy has got a cold or sinistis,
husky slurred, bit pissed off, annoyed thus scruffy.
Not quite what she wanted.
Always a fussy eater. Bilious. Ambushed in the dead of night. Cutting up wire in no man’s land.
Bells afore ye go or was that before.
The tot before it’s over the top to disappear
into a post war mist outside Budley Salterton
digging ditches and watching the crows congregate to see who’s also absent without love.

Spillage

 

 

Gypsy moth splutters overhead Wave say cheese or butter shiny chin up I pluck me a petal for keeps as a familiar — Freed! Stemless, infrontiered, horizonless, no jke. O! undone’s oppo condescends to rose Pollen hazards plait havoc from sensidata. E,g, Misstook red cucumber for long tomato. Consumer rights for wild Sumatra. Brain tuna salad for Sinatra. Free Le Monde—Ay. That’s the spirit. Check for Nobby, nun frothcumin. Gate click bogus. Imaginary man. Slept Simms deep through the magic hour, You bet late October sun, low and strong, ignites the fireglow. Snow falls come to settle northern hills under over of the nightlight Simms hears blinding clear— a feather drops, a barndoor creaks, a lame foot dragged over gravel. Not here. It could never happen to her—to her above all. Thus it was to me…Repeatedly. First poison songular, one eyed, jocular by elect. Here the yarn disintegrates, sugar rush beginning to suck, new toys to play with see, solo. Significant otter, Murdstone Memory, chiffon wisps, misty graveyarn, drawn to it, nay compelled. Blame the weather that you say you make. Me is haunting me then is it. Dull ditch drudgery digging up dirt. Let’s pick another spot. Say Casablanca. Ricks. Or is it Ric’s? up yer bum again, get off…Half term repose from Nursery rush hour, frozen over night some scream. Poor little mites seek sanctuary in the mattress. Survival of the fattest. Me. Simms for a day. Sylvia, Sylvia, wherefore art house? Balance that book on yer head or you’re dead. Deportment bearing poise. A Ginsborough Flicture. See it between the lines. Do it till your feet bleed. Post War austere. In the National Interest of the greater good they groomed you. Shove these fillets in there, tuck your tummy in. steel corset a must. You must improve your bust. Ooo new nylons!Themes of feelings to rote recite. Apple pie to order. Lashings of custard. O no you don’t— you are a starlet, baby. Oily lizard slimeball speaks pillow drool. Perm one from a cast of several. Is that why she did it? More pricks than a pincushion. Over billiards eavesdropped. Evil snotties. Pimps sport warty cocks. Browned off with Bisto powder. Hairy arsecracks, shirtails and gaiters, besocked, creaking floorboards, pulling out soo, receding tumult, light a Players. What’s my name? Saliva cesspit Ears looking at you kid. Blackheads and beeswax. What big ears you have Grandpa. Think I’s gonna throw now. Take a peppermint. Only Fisher’s Friends. Quelle Fromage, Mon Dieu! Stale chanel, sweat beads form. Not little me. Cut. Pass the Gilbeys. And then…across the street, round the corner, down the road, looking for a fresh location. Flying by the seat of ones panties. Don’t get me wrong. making your way in the world aint a piece of cake. Dignity always dignity! What was…Cosmo, sidekick foil, Donal O Doner, dinner tea always dinner tea. So much has been. USP. Cut See its real time, clues make plots, usuals, gloves and hairpins, smoking buns. Would that it were so. Dust and drab prevail. Blind unblinking light, turn this way, not there’s better. The camera loves you. Horsehair sweater, cretonne upholstery, period piece. Mason the baddy, sweaty hands shake. Fiddleabout. Gay old blade. Old biddy asked him, career on the wain, Dublin on shoot. Sure were you once yerself? Mistaken identity. Trick of the light. Always the pro. Warrington Minge. Chinoise Launderette Blouse. Boys of the old Brigada. Never see their likes. Never did. Boozy old lechers aging under lamposts. Cut Seafly ensconced now, diss equilibrium, jumping the snark inbetween setbacks. Still we KBO. All routes lead to rout it seems. Lingo will catch its death running around in that in this weather. Need taking in hand. Put straight. Now look ye here, Master Tod it’ll end in tears. Off laughter. Got like it when the wind blew ill. Down on April up on May. Playing a fallow old field. CutNow once more with kneeling. Therein lies a tale. Kneeling & healing. Next notch to go up. Kneel. Thinks iss just knees. Not so fast or snap. Then you cook the goose. Smell

What Henry Saw

 

‘Dolphin! I say, nay, beseech yuzz. What kind of a name is than then?’ Pesk was plundered. It was him.
‘The very thing. Dolphin. Dolphin Phipps. Shoot Phipps is bad enough. Could be Godolphin, mind. Arab horsey typos. Own Dettori. Blue shirts. Abdul O’Himmler. That sorta thing…’
The dull surge of midday twaddle tutted. The too much and the too many times earwigged. The Captain’s Table. Pesk ate up the prawns and got out the book of tides. Pesk’s Quest’s companion and found the place anointed: ‘Greely Quay & the Giant Cray’ page thirty-two and read out loud.
One is instantly struck by the sheer drab of the hillside graveyard as one enters Greely Quay along the wily and tortuous snaketrail from Dead Dog Strand. Sitting as it does on the crest of the headland, it seems to mock shame the bay below as it whispers to the sea “here’s a few poor beggars that your fishies did not gobble up!” And, indeed the headstones tell the tales of souls retrieved from perilous, murk bedevilled waters: Michael Murtagh, lost off the Vestal Hemispheric, found skulking like a bailiff in Dundown Cove February 14th 1962; Peter Teaser, mauled by the trawler Strawberry Flan, Regurge Sound 28th October, 1989…
‘Hold up! That was my cousin’s sweetheart, Peety.’ The Dolphin man broke in, ‘what’s that yoke your reading from, my friend?’
‘My Uncle’s Diary’ said Peck slowly, not looking up.
‘Why are you telling it out loud?’ said the Dolphin man coming across.
‘To find you Mr. Mullins. To find you. My quarry.’
…

‘You had me going there, Dolphus.’ Perks sighed as they rowed out. ‘I thought you were Pinkerton’s sub-con gofer…’
Loud came not the stern reply
The cove was mill pond smooth that eve. The men laughed too loud for easy air. Water lapped hollow on the inlet. How far out is safe to row, both mulled. Still meant ill, sounds carry gurgles, echoes travel, stealthy, slurred.
—Spruce your caboose with the neck of a goose! Said Mullins, brandishing his cutlass striking a now or never pose.
Music bathed the ether. Seagulls squawked deliverance . A sacrifice most Tuesdays if I feed the shumbunkin corn flakes, a hag sneered snagged by gin slings.
—Said seabass emerged its mammy’s lug, two full moons late, a guttersnipe once told us on the promenade, left lug mind the right were grommet bunged. No exit, clearly posted, neon flashes, AC wired…
—From sinister portals, indeed. Churned over down the years, and thus delivered, ‘Hi, tis I, chance of sip of your sup?’ Beggar off big brute, I’ll have yer…’
—Guts for gators, probed a scoop nose. Who he? One or tother. Why it matters not. Time for the Klaxon hoot?
Klaxon Hooted. A bottle rocked up. The message read:
All their life was regulated not by laws, statutes, or rules, but according to their free will and pleasure. They rose from bed when they pleased, and drank, ate, worked, and slept when the fancy seized them. Nobody woke them; nobody compelled them either to eat or to drink, or to do anything else whatever. So it was that Gargantua had established it. In their rules there was only one clause:

DO WHAT YOU WILL
because people who are free, well-born, well-bred, and easy in honest company have a natural spur and instinct which drives them to virtuous deeds and deflects them from vice; and this they called honour. When these same men are depressed and enslaved by vile constraint and subjection, they use this noble quality which once impelled them freely towards virtue, to throw off and break this yoke of slavery. For we always strive after things forbidden and covet what is denied us.[20]:159
—Book twenty! Blimey there’s a tome. Mullins was flummoxed. Perks lingered over it, identifying Rabelais, but why now of all times. It was, he concluded, for diplomatic purposes, a red herring.
—It’s nothing. Let’s go home.

SS Shambrosia

...half  deck snow drift makes passage hard as pallid fall slurry halts in jiff kept rhythm steps at battalion rank :

'Hut two three four...Wait frrr-it!' October Offensive under maple wood, woolen jumpers limber down two thousand eighteen feral furtives with feasting fuelled eyes. Same so as us auspicious dunnocks find insecurity in numbers crammed like teeming pismires and no cap Alpinista hornblows.

Dormant, cryostatic, ectoplastic nublets farm downlands... 'Icy Untermenschen', hollered Foxx,  seen signs of naughty pigroast rising over Vimy ridge. 'Skullduguppery afoot nod out, made up by loathsome nomad Ig-Nogs after see--things snifter pick 'em ups, hotpot body toddies sapped, surf'n'turf lipsmack hereafters off the cards this tour.

It was not to be so-so, said Hoody Heather who blew out candle swift  and got truly bestowed below. High on lead fumes and oxymoronisms, Skip Ted stood up and said nothing with faultless brevity, for he was propped up by loyal canoes and had dug for him a dunny.

Small Sur Prizes!

 

Python tell me tell me do who will be king of the mountain, Fountain or Gnu?

Hazardous whims, futile free your mind spurts and lurid surges come fast and furious before a void of cloud lazily reclines & swamps all visible, yet a watery bloated hazel red moon sits in biding time—locked out by sub-criminal daylight; visible only through torn curtains pulled up chinstrap tight, spotted trembling on damp khaki lawn tufts wet as whitewash daub, as yet undaunted by a withered lonesome  paltry pear tree (grown from seedy by lusty Mmme. Cecilia Bubblebath in zero eleven), of late an old fellah lies flopped face up on the wuthered freebie bird table. In for a nasty shock to discover he was dead all along, & that all due to a wet dog nose start— inarticulate bowels of the heart remain sound opiated by pk’s, face up obscured by rats tails, a week unshaven scowl, apolitical bodymass gone to stale sugary loaf hairy mountain goatherd look in vogue this season some say.

. Suffered well earnt defeat mind on the board to lesser mortals—that gone over last night’s fudge still lingers, brushed it aside easy as  a fly I brushed away from my fish supper two days back. Watched him slip away downstairs to lick over untrolled wounds, they said. Spoke he with The Last Aunt Standing who has had her hair done nicely despite racist slurs? Yes, quite so. Of course he did his duty. Type of the fellah

The Saturday post contains but one item of worth— an envelope of cloud with occasional Regency tables thrown in as dead loss leaders, included callously witing an invite to beat weather matador offers of pluperfect chestnut bliss with neat fad accessories, foldaway hoofiron going cheep, and inflatable pumpkinseeds ideal for the small non-starter home; skewered by glow worms on their own braveheart lies, little strivers gored blind by outrageous bullshit attend round the bin bag brain’s trust, singing we trust in King Kilbane’s auburn call to squirm, and woeful watch Mourinho writing on the wall as the wrecking ball looms larger than life. Autumn offers very little to the most discerning ripple one finds in the long run.

 

 

Er@ror bUss…

 

—Goffical yarns, ‘orrorstories & such likes, sundry silk suspenders, hellhouse gin & chronic whims, parfam de toilette in spades, hide the stench pomanders, shit day at work, pass the swordfish, Abbot!
Dinkus slipped a gemstone in the anchovies: meant splendiferous for all involved! Like sixpence in the Seafood Soup you see and melted away with Real authentic gripes here we very come. But there was no bus till Tuesday when the siren sounds. What a waste of a second childhood. We shall have to make our own fun. They pondered it hard & long into the night.The Three dog night followed for some it seemed
‘Do What!’ the man said, ‘write it boy, just right it. No one else but you left.’
Piss off

Winterlude:
JERRY (panting) You dropped something, Sir, Mr. Barrell told me to run after ,
you.
MRS. ROONEY Show. (She takes the object.) What is it? (She examines it.) What is
this thing, Dan?
MR. ROONEY Perhaps it is not mine at all.
JERRY Mr. Barrell said it was, Sir.
MRS. ROONEY It looks like a kind of ball. And yet it is not a ball.
MR. ROONEY Give it to me.
MRS. ROONEY (giving it) What is it, Dan?
MR. ROONEY It is a thing I carry about with me.
MRS. ROONEY Yes, but what
MR. ROONEY (violently) It is a thing I carry about with me!

Dinkus wheezed most heartily, exclaiming rudely, ‘All the fun of the feral, Chimpden!’ To which Chimpden pnuematically concurred with a rustle of apeshit canopy. ‘Werch won uddam triggered it auf?’ Dr Repulson interjected handwritingly. Cloud came astern, delighted with of which stuff can be said. The day dawned twice for sure, or so they keep on saying. More monkey than sense is what I will say if asked. A Zweck at last! Dinkus pinked with gusto and was spotted keel hauling red herrings off Mauritius last in ’forty nine in memory of the Erebus.

Solarium

 

Working hard at it, she claimed, beavering away, making sound coffers and indiscrete lagoons with yellow sundries from ash cart windfall — a thankless task but someone somewhere must step up to the enamel plate, try their very best to it, give their all at once, just consider one hundredth of a percent at a time— so a thousand beavers would sort it if they were so inclined would they?
Downhill racers struggle in zero gravity, this is what fog feels like hanging in the callow, strikes me, those muddy cattle turn opaque in pearl light, like their doing untimed cryptic crosswords sometimes, me I stick to sticks and stones, pretty square some say, post cubists so they claim, but I know their cut, grave train robbers and coy enchantresses with altitude sickness…
Glassworks breaks me up and leaves me shattered in tiny pieces in a lake of flawed prisms after rain, a trumpling ripple passes through here, where has my drive gone, my desire waned? No point in asking, don’t bother, all is done for training porpoises to jump through hoops and mumble technobabble…give up the shooting match altogether, she rightly thought, I’ll never leave this place to thrive, just push soft unforgiving walls— only words really haunt
She who sleeps sweet sinnest not, I was persuaded on waking, downstairs a stray dog runs through the smoking room, we climb deckled steppes in bandaged brutal feet, get spotted seeking out shelter from the Storm Bruhaha in a little hilltop village called after Pat Buchanan for some unknown treason, the Yanks were around a lot in those bold cold war days…how could it be others?
Just put it all back together, two by two, at random. Wonders then will never cease, it’s just that you won’t notice once you get the hang of it. Swingers and roundabouts will again conspire, building playgrounds caked in cake, a robin shits in earnest on the aspidistra. Look what happens when the windows are left wide open?

Dent

Cut me up before you go-go—Don’t keep me hanging round like a bubo, she hummed langorous. Dent.
“Read the peanut butter smeared along the mud vessel— dawn raid on Morpheus goes tits up on the toejam sandwich. Drake pre bowls slurped drowsy fillips and sought professional suss from Doc Sydenham, who could spin a plate with the best ovum
‘Help me out Snydders, in a bit of a spotters. Draggers’, it read.
Within the molten moment a vial appeared beside the pickled onion sculpt he was currently working on. He unbunged and sniffed pure lipstick bliss. He never looked back again until yesterday when the sky fell in and all hell broke loose…”

—And it was all going along swimmingly till that juncture? You see what I’m up against here? Indifference to my toothache though I pulled them out years back. Bone memories linger. Like losing a leg iron, I suppose. I think I am thus concussed. The polystyrene tiles are gone divine kaleidoscopic. I want a shit but its raining on the third foor landing. Now the toilet is on rapid fire— what am I to do? If I go out there will be lions. There must be toilet paper somewhere!

All things must pass, splash splash splash splash…what can make it safe again, waters dripping from bare wires, the taps are sprouting butterfly wings, a terrible smell of ammonia is born, am I being taken? Going it alone. Turn left, no toilet paper in Walter Road, just a bloody lion as I thought. We exchange unpleasantries and give each other a wide berth. I must fine some toilet paper. Ask someone, say you’ve been caught short. Squirm. Here will do. She let me in. I could not go. I started to take off my trousers but worried. Perhaps it was the sight of the pyjamas I was wearing underneath. I left but kept looking back for net curtains moving and more sly lions.

The door slammed shut on the cell, she was alone, cold naked. Giggling echoed down the corridor
‘We’ve got a right one here Harry’
She rolled the blue mattress over, the room got longer, she rolled it again and the same thing. She kept going, it kept her warm. The voices grew more distant. With a faint distant clunk a door opened. She looked up. Two tiny female officers looked on from fifty yards away.
‘Here are your clothes’
In three strides she was there taking her clothes
‘Where’s the other shoe?’
‘We didn’t see it. A dog must have had it.’
‘Thanks’
They left her to get dressed. Warm flannel.

Fingerprints and mugshots followed. She signed the charge sheet—insulting behaviour indeed! Brigit Bardot went through her mind, stonefaced suppilicant, big cow eyes.
‘You can go now Miss’
‘How will I get home on one shoe?’
They said they’d give her a lift. Chortling.

Back at the Castle she thanked them for the lift and walked silently across the tarmac. Word was spreading fast. The stepmother and the daughter bumped off the King, but he was getting on, so the trouble soon blew over. Money changed hands they say, only the lions knew
~
They found him crashed out on the landing, a bottle of Teacher’s three-quarters gone, going it alone. A declaration of intent. She was gone. He was dead. The soul had left the body, confirmed by forensic after a sniff. Could not take the hits. No pain was worth it again. A shadow of himself. Out for number none. This is confessorial, writing therapy, to share with the small group and obscure for the big one. You are a state. Empty eyes reflect. Train’s late.

Noot cried heifer’s tears, a bovine blubber, I felt ashamed, but pressed on in command of the just reproach. Blubber gave way to sullen moping and then he was up, he could not take any more, and ended up in psychiatric work after a few more ups and downs.

Dialogic, here I go again…flirting with disaster turned away from a one night stand into a headlong plunge into a scene of well-heeled underclasslings of penniless aristocrats and handy chisellers acting the cock on the orphic walk, fraternising with disarmingly witty gangsters fingering each other’s pies for little more than kicks. With no good guaranteed to come of it leapt at the opportunity and fell into the irredeemable dry dream. Escape is always temporary despite how long it last just like memory, which warps and bends throughout, clutchable like the butterfly only to perish in the palm of overzealous hands. Like Sam the cage fighting passer through,the life of the butterfly, disappearing overnight, mutating in your rigid hands for days on end, its spirit seeping through your palm and into your brain in a trice on the turn of a screw.
Ecstasy was so, another liberty taken away for a refit. Flitting and flirting from disaster to disaster. The old man’s hollow locus rushes in, succumb, desist, resign yourself to ‘This is it’, another barren plateau in the company of jazzy Larkin and the bloated stoics, this with no Empire to remember, just the broken shell of a custom house, where yobbos warm the upholstered air. The end of England beckons!
~
Stretching hamstrung by the upstairs window crooking looking round below as abundant bird life goes apeshit now the sun is out. The robin I rescued two days back hogs the earthenware water dish for a morning wallow and splash, resists in the face pestering by a nagging persistent from a troupe of thirsty dunnocks & retreats in profit to dry off on the sun splashed chestnut tree. Food chains and pecking orders fall apart in the blink of an eye once trust is denied a chance by the Snopes, when they smell a predator in the Cut they prowl. Shake the yum-yum tree and see who gets it this time. Heroes will be heroes! The robin has clear Snopes tendencies trumped by inherent stubborn pride & a exhilarating phobia of fall. Washing the feathers of fading summer, a shaggy dog story of survival against no odds; he sort of stuff that keeps your pecker up when the berries have all been had.

Egress stage loft Bank Hoolie Day two thousand and eighteen exit with waddle and ticklesome cough, a nettle kettle and tap of flow, a heave, a clamber and gansta crap, then it gets cerebral.
The king popped by Freddie’s birthday on day two of venality on a frostbit north easterly wind, shutter the windows, come chagrin braved a shower on day three, and pulled over a woolly cosy and black as Spodes’ fleece sweater, first time on in what seems like months past, which it has.
Did not fall out of bed that morning, the presence of a dog was enough. My dream of destitution realised. In that squalor I smell in the chipfat air?
Always took it to verymost extremes, never learnt when to stop it, flogging a dread cloth horse to death in pure anal denial of what others could smell what’s going on under yew.
On some hot pursuit of nothing much encountered an object of previous. A sombrero I’ll have you know. What made then you say that?
just a shot in the dark, Mister Brautigan.
Just a shot in the dark, Hunter S.
Just a shark in the Ark, Jacques Cousteau.
Just a shot in the dark, David Niven.
Yawning boredom that I have achieved with a minimum of effort on my part…

Turkey headed for the oven all by itself, dying of exposure to the light, overlooked by those who once knew better, from outside it looks like the varmint plain gave up the ghost for deadwood, don’t leave things to rot on the dross corrupted worktops of long abandoned galleys, you are asking for it again…forty years lost at sea, forgot my bearings first day out, heading for the rocks I veered east where down the road I have malingered ever since. Yes malingered, post traumatic ordeal of the really real, I ran for cover. Hid. I am still hiding now. Hiding behind these words, unmasked and yet unmaskable, for you see my true face would be anathema in these parts where crafty devils lurk in the cutest faces…
~
In the shower nebulous sacks hum all equal in hissing anonymity of steambath pinkwash…jussa memory Elaine, since ankle bleed most copious, fearing the chop it off, history repeats on me too much—try to shake it off, it clings, unlike the bells that toll for thee. Thee. Thou. Thine. Tooth ache cartoon throbbing in a body bone. Wrap it with rashers, foiled this way up and in lambs tail exaggeration ready to munch sinisterly hereafter. Quilty men, unusual suspects, identity peruse, toe the line for in she comes. Missus Bates with a switchblade flicked to attend overlooked jiblets, neatly knotted, inner plastic bagatelle.

~

Suzi P’s & Q’s

 

Working hard at it Suzi claimed, beavering away, ruffling coffers and moon lagoons with yellow branch sundries from ash cart windfall— a thankless task someone somewhere step up to the plate, try their very wary best, give their all at once, one hundredth of a percent at a timeslot— ergo a thousand beavers would sort it if so-so inclined would they?
Downhill racers struggle minus gravity, what once felt like fog feels like hanging in the callow vale strikes me, muddy cattle look opaque in this light, doing timeless cryptic crosswords, clueless me I stick to sticks and stones, pretty square right on some say, cubists they claim but I know the type, grave grooved robbers and enchantresses with altitude squits…
Glassworks fairly cracks me up and leaves me sprinkled in tiny pieces like a lake of prisms after deluge, a ripple passes rapid through her, chill where has my drive, my desire for fire gone? No point in asking youll get, all calls is done for training porpoises to jump through hoops and technobubbles…give up the sheep shooting match altogether, she thought, I’ll never leave this place alive, just push soft those unforgiving walls— words really haunt the brickworks
She who sleeps mind sinnest not, I was told on waking wailing, downstairs a dog runs through the smoking room, we climb the steppes in bandaged boneless feet, get spotted seeking Shelter from the Storm ( a little hilltop village called Pat Buchanan for some unknown treason). Yanks came around a lot in those old cold war days of slavery…
Just put it all together, two by two. Wonders then wonders will never cease, it’s just that you won’t notice now you know the knack of it. Swings and roundabouts will conspire, playgrounds caked in cake in rain, a robin shits on the aspidistra when Jonny come marches in. Look what happens when the window’s are left open too long?

Rosedale

The Avocado

Hanging

out with me at the crossroads tonight are a toucan and his chums, the penguins. The toucan does not say too much, just enough. The penguins do not say anything, nothing that I get.

Out here the sun goes down all night and we have not seen a soul since the cop on the Harley three days back. Mr. Henderson dropped us off in his pick-up. I should call him and thank him but the signal out here stinks

It is after all the edge of desert.

The nights get cold.

It is just me and the birds.

…

I go to the loo and switch off the corridor light bed down again beside the potted lavender, I try to get back to the chaps, but we are stifled by a freak system common to these parts

You have got to be quick to shake down the blankets as…

View original post 101 more words

Crimson Rouge of Rage

Picnic coma: Suite Anglaissez after zonk
The Right On Venerable Saint Superfly found sleeve notes useful twaddle while preparing ideal Sufi soiree buffet of suspect saveloys & faced up never too late to stark eyes reality of borders drawn red upon a horse’s arse by gin sodden planters, peanut brittle badoliers, venal penal colonisers bent on bent profiteering from nomadic land juice copious, drew a line in the primal desert ocean floor.
The bogmen of the Kalahari make non plussed click-clacks. Ladies tut-tut-tut. A quorum of disapprobation if ever one was lugged. Like hollow tally sticks they rang through the knobbly glen. It was on this pagan plateau O’Muck ran amuck once the legend reads…
Nowadays new rules of estrangement are enforced lackadaisically via Wonga wallahs who pay dues to lip gloss service engineers for such is custom & practice in such primitive viticultures, tranqil myopic outposts of sleaze, noon lagoon poltroons at play, dayglow puce stockades & sallow ghettoes of long lost empire bring them out in a nasty green rash— fresh gold leaf impetigo ensnarls the Sligo Alhambra, thrice blinks slow and misses Leitrim altogether, takes though a firm grip of O’Muck’s hod in gawd help us Mayo with grim faced must go gusto. The Westport roadworks lie ahead. Waiting. Auguries of Deviance.
—Heads will roll for this, round up the innocent and expunge them of their gonads! Said John Paul the Squirty Turd, squeezing out the last juices of a heretic’s pituitary in his gargle water.
Waster Noot seems happy enough to hear this tucked up in his louse lined cockpit with the Brothers Karamazov and a tatty ball of string attached to the dangling light cord so i take the opportunity at this point reader to snack & warm my feet in the vagrant thermal oven and drool about a slice of the crusty white loaf pinched earlier. A win is a win—no two ways about it. But no! No Bread, just crumbs trailing to the supine culprit fiddling sleepily with his freckled ball sack
I play the Grand Inquisitor and burst in with intent to maim. I chose the path of madness they tell me. Who knows, Vanessa, whom? Wood trees scenario, broken needles underfoot. Long wait to tip O’Reilly off that the Boys are Back in Tuam. Saw doctors on lambrettas. Sorry sight for sore eyes. Spectacle of Raised galoshes tipped to soak the queer old Dean. The year of the Great Stink too. Sixteen fifty eight and all that! A year to resemble. Crimson rouge of rage, Vanessa. Crimson Rouge of Rage. Adieu.

Excommunication Breakdown

 

 

Log me off before you go-go—Don’t keep me hanging round like a bubo, she hummed himself.
“Read the peanut butter smeared along the vessel— dawn raid on Morpheus goes tits up on the sandwich. Drake slurped drowsy fillips and sought professional suss from Doc Sydenham, who could spin a plate with the best turn
‘Help me out Snydders, in a bit of a spot. Drago’, it read. Within the moment a vial appeared beside the pickled onions he was currently working on. He unbunged and sniffed pure bliss. He never looked back again until yesterday when the sky fell in and all hell broke loose…”

—And it was all going along swimmingly till that juncture? You see what I’m up against here? Indifference to my toothache though I pulled them out years back. Bone memories linger. Like losing a leg iron, I suppose. I think I am concussed. The polystyrene tiles are gone kaleidoscopic. I want a shit but its raining on the landing. Now the toilet is on fire— what am I to do? If I go out there will be lions. There must be toilet paper somewhere!

All things must pass, splash splash splash splash…what can make it safe again, waters dripping from bare wires, the taps are sprouting wings, a terrible smell of ammonia, am I being taken. Going it alone. Turn left, no toilet paper in Walter Road, just a bloody lion as I thought. We exchange unpleasantries and give each other a wide berth. I must fine some toilet paper. Ask someone, say you’ve been caught short. Here will do. She let me in. I could not go. I started to take off my trousers but whe looked worried. Perhaps it was the sight of the pyjamas I was wearing underneath. I left but kept looking back for net curtains moving and more bloody lions.

The door slammed shut on the cell, she was alone, cold naked. Giggling echoed down the corridor
‘We’ve got a right one here Harry’
She rolled the blue mattress over, the room got longer, she rolled it again and the same thing. She kept going, it kept here warm. The voices grew more distant. With a faint distant clunk a door opened. She looked up. Two tiny female officers looked on from fifty yards away.
‘Here are your clothes’
In three strides she was there taking her clothes
‘Where’s the other shoe?’
‘We didn’t see it. A dog must have had it.’
‘Thanks’
They left her to get dressed. Warm flannelette.

Fingerprints and mugshots followed. She signed the charge sheet—insulting behaviour indeed! Brigit Bardot went through her mind, stonefaced suppilicant, big cow eyes.
‘You can go now Miss’
‘How will I get home on one shoe?’
They said they’d give her a lift.

Back at the Castle she thanked them for the lift and walked silently across the tarmac. Word was spreading fast. The stepmother and the daughter bumped off the King, but he was getting on, so the trouble soon blew over. Money changed hands they say, only the lions knew

They found him crashed out on the landing, a bottle of Teacher’s three-quarters gone, going it alone. A declaration of intent. She was gone. He was dead. The soul had left the body, confirmed by forensic three days after. Could not take the hits. No pain was worth it again. A shadow of himself. Out for number none. This is confessorial, writing therapy, to share with the small group and obscure for the big one. You are a state. Empty eyes reflect.

Noot cried heifer’s tears, a bovine blubber, I felt ashamed, but pressed on in command of the just reproach. Blubber gave way to sullen moping and then he was up, he could not take any more, and ended up in psychiatric work after a few more ups and downs.

Dialogic, here I go again…flirting with disaster turned away from a one night stand into a headlong plunge into a scene of well-heeled underclass of penniless aristocrats and handy chisellers acting the cock of the orphic walk, fraternising with disarmingly witty gangsters fingering each other’s pies for little more than kicks. With no good guaranteed to come of it leapt at the opportunity and fell into the irredeemable dream. Escape is always temporary despite how long it last just like memory, which warps and bends throughout, clutchable like the butterfly only to perish in the palm of overzealous hands. Like Sam the cage fighting passer through,the life of the butterfly, disappearing overnight, mutating in your rigid hands for days on end, its spirit seeping through your palm and into your brain in a trice on the turn of a screw.
Ecstasy was so, another liberty taken away for a refit. Flitting and flirting from disaster to disaster. The old man’s hollow locus rushes in, succumb, desist, resign yourself to ‘This is it’, another barren plateau in the company of jazzy Larkin and the bloated stoics, this with no Empire to remember, just the broken shell of a custom house, where yobbos warm the upholstered air. The end of England beckons!

Stretching hamstrung by the upstairs window crooking looking round below as abundant bird life goes apeshit now the sun is out. The robin I rescued two days back hogs the earthenware water dish for a morning wallow and splash, resists in the face pestering by a nagging persistent from a troupe of thirsty dunnocks & retreats in profit to dry off on the sun splashed chestnut tree. Food chains and pecking orders fall apart in the blink of an eye once trust is denied a chance by the Snopes, when they smell a predator in the Cut they prowl. Shake the yum-yum tree and see who gets it this time. Heroes will be heroes! The robin has clear Snopes tendencies trumped by inherent stubborn pride & a exhilarating phobia of fall. Washing the feathers of fading summer, a shaggy dog story of survival against no odds; he sort of stuff that keeps your pecker up when the berries have all been had.

Egress Bank Hoolie Day two thousand and eighteen exit with waddle and tickle cough, a nettle kettle and tap of flow, a heave, a clamber and gansta crap, then it gets cerebral.
The king popped by Freddie’s birthday on day two of venality on a frostbit north easterly wind, shutter the windows, come chagrin braved a shower on day three, and pulled over a woolly cosy and black as Spodes’ fleece sweater, first time on in what seems like months past, which it has.
Did not fall out of bed that morning, the presence of a dog was enough. My dream of destitution realised. In that squalor I smell in the chipfat air?
Always took it to verymost extremes, never learnt when to stop it, flogging a dread cloth horse to death in pure anal denial of what others could smell what’s going on under yew.
On some hot pursuit of nothing much encountered an object of previous. A sombrero I’ll have you know. What made then you say that?
just a shot in the dark, Mister Brautigan.
Just a shot in the dark, Hunter S.
Just a shark in the Ark, Jacques Cousteau.
Just a shot in the dark, David Niven.
Yawning bore that I have achieved with a minimum of effort on my part…

Turkey headed for the oven all by itself, dying of exposure to the light, overlooked by those who once knew better, from outside it looks the varmint plain gave up the ghost for dead, don’t leave things to rot on the dross corrupted worktops of abandoned galleys, your are asking for it again…forty years lost at sea, forgot my bearings first day out, heading for the rocks I veered east where I have malingered ever since. Yes malingered, post traumatic ordeal of the real, I ran for cover. Hid. I am still hiding now. Hiding behind these words, unmasked and yet unmaskable, for you see my face it is anathema in these parts crafty devils lurk in the cutest faces…

Trope

 

Log me of before you go-go—Don’t keep me hanging round like a bubo, it read.

“Read the peanut butter smeared along the blood vessel— dawn raid on Morpheus goes tits up on the sandwich. Drake slurped drowsy fillips and sought professional suss from Doc Sydenham, who could spin a plate with the best turn
‘Help me out Snydders, in a bit of a spot. Drago’, it read. Within the moment a vial appeared beside the pickled onions he was currently working on. He unbunged and sniffed pure bliss. He never looked back again until yesterday when the sky fell in and all hell broke loose…”

—And it was all going along swimmingly till that juncture? You see what I’m up against here? Indifference to my toothache though I pulled them out years back. Bone memories linger. Like losing a leg iron, I suppose. I think I am concussed. The polystyrene tiles are gone kaleidoscopic. I want a shit but its raining on the landing. Now the toilet is on fire— what am I to do? If I go out there will be lions. There must be toilet paper somewhere!

All things must pass, splash splash splash splash…what can make it safe again, waters dripping from bare wires, the taps are sprouting wings, a terrible smell of ammonia, am I being taken. Going it alone. Turn left, no toilet paper in Walter Road, just a bloody lion as I thought. We exchange unpleasantries and give each other a wide berth. I must fine some toilet paper. Ask someone, say you’ve been caught short. Here will do. She let me in. I could not go. I started to take off my trousers but whe looked worried. Perhaps it was the sight of the pyjamas I was wearing underneath. I left but kept looking back for net curtains moving and more bloody lions.

The door slammed shut on the cell, she was alone, cold naked. Giggling echoed down the corridor
‘We’ve got a right one here Harry’
She rolled the blue mattress over, the room got longer, she rolled it again and the same thing. She kept going, it kept here warm. The voices grew more distant. With a faint distant clunk a door opened. She looked up. Two tiny female officers looked on from fifty yards away.
‘Here are your clothes’
In three strides she was there taking her clothes
‘Where’s the other shoe?’
‘We didn’t see it. A dog must have had it.’
‘Thanks’
They left her to get dressed. Warm flannelette.

Fingerprints and mugshots followed. She signed the charge sheet—insulting behaviour indeed! Brigit Bardot went through her mind, stonefaced suppilicant, big cow eyes.
‘You can go now Miss’
‘How will I get home on one shoe?’
They said they’d give her a lift.

Back at the Castle she thanked them for the lift and walked silently across the tarmac. Word was spreading fast. The stepmother and the daughter bumped off the King, but he was getting on, so the trouble soon blew over. Money changed hands they say, only the lions knew

They found him crashed out on the landing, a bottle of Teacher’s three-quarters gone, going it alone. A declaration of intent. She was gone. He was dead. The soul had left the body, confirmed by forensic three days after. Could not take the hits. No pain was worth it again. A shadow of himself. Out for number none. This is confessorial, writing therapy, to share with the small group and obscure for the big one. You are a state. Empty eyes reflect.

Noot cried heifer’s tears, a bovine blubber, I felt ashamed, but pressed on in command of the just reproach. Blubber gave way to sullen moping and then he was up, he could not take any more, and ended up in psychiatric work after a few more ups and downs.

Dialogic, here I go again…flirting with disaster turned away from a one night stand into a headlong plunge into a scene of well-heeled underclass of penniless aristocrats and handy chisellers acting the cock of the orphic walk, fraternising with disarmingly witty gangsters fingering each other’s pies for little more than kicks. With no good guaranteed to come of it leapt at the opportunity and fell into the irredeemable dream. Escape is always temporary despite how long it last just like memory, which warps and bends throughout, clutchable like the butterfly only to perish in the palm of overzealous hands. Like Sam the cage fighting passer through,the life of the butterfly, disappearing overnight, mutating in your rigid hands for days on end, its spirit seeping through your palm and into your brain in a trice on the turn of a screw.
Ecstasy was so, another liberty taken away for a refit. Flitting and flirting from disaster to disaster. The old man’s hollow locus rushes in, succumb, desist, resign yourself to ‘This is it’, another barren plateau in the company of jazzy Larkin and the bloated stoics, this with no Empire to remember, just the broken shell of a custom house, where yobbos warm the upholstered air. The end of England beckons!

Stretching hamstring by the upstairs window crooking looking round below as abundant bird life goes apeshit now the sun is out. The robin I rescued two days back hogs the earthenware water dish for a morning wallow and splash, resists in the face pestering by a nagging persistent from a troupe of thirsty dunnocks & retreats in profit to dry off on the sun splashed chestnut tree. Food chains and pecking orders fall apart in the blink of an eye once trust is denied a chance by the Snopes, when they smell a predator in the Cut they prowl. Shake the yum-yum tree and see who gets it this time. Heroes will be heroes! The robin has clear Snopes tendencies trumped by inherent stubborn pride & a exhilarating phobia of fall. Washing the feathers of fading summer, a shaggy dog story of survival against no odds; he sort of stuff that keeps your pecker up when the berries have all been had.

La Roi Henri!!!

 

Picnic coma ‘Supine Selfie’ worshipped by a zillion minions riding pinion on reality. Phoebe Superfly, unreal  name, found alive in Wales preparing an super Sufi buffet faces up to the stark  herbaceous borders she once drew in crimson red upon a horse’s arse for laughs. Rookie planters, post colonisers bent on profiteering from  non nomadic lands, those who draw a line in the browning ocean have their hands full this time
The bogmen of the Kalahari make disapproving click-clacks that sound like hailstones thrumming on hollow sticks

International rules of Estrangement enforced lackadaisically pay flip glib lip service to custom & practice in protoprimitive enclaves, shot up outposts are fauve game, plush chemin de fur lagoons open house, thus plague stockades & fetid pisspots of callow empire break out in a pungent rosy rashes—impetigo rife among the Orfs of Sligo, but it blinks, winks and misses Leitrim, turns right and takes clammy grip of God help us Mayo with a waning gusto
—Heads will roll for this, round up the rapine and expunge them! Said John Paul the Quirky Turd, squeezing out the last juices of a heretic’s quince
I play the Grand Inquisitor saints days and bank holidays

A win is a win—no two ways about it
But no! No Bread outrage, crumbs lead to the basking in a sleeping bag culprit fiddling with his nob
Noot is happy out tucked up in this septic cockpit lapping up the Brothers Karamazov with a ball of string attached to the dripping light cord so go to sneak a snack & warm cold feet in yonder oven and chomp on a slice of the crusty white loaf.

It was just a dream some of us had…once in lifetime.

winter of disco ’79, freezing in a flat above a butcher’s marble chiller. do i want to know? what do i want to know? i know not but it is there. a hankering. a yearning, too passive for a quest: too constant for whim. idle striving worry work. nowt better. out of college? never in it…scrapheap now. cape horner nembutal vodka head, still got his bloody great coat. tramp.. down and out in denial. nowhere know all. fear eaten. help me Rhonda. You write. they say. half as well as you go on maybe something in it. hellish pigheaded idle. quick to react

studied indifference and pissed off with flying collars hit the runway scared seeing the world as you see you, abject poseur on the tiles, drink and attitude, turned away and ran back home, never left in truth. too little. to young. packed it all in to a pill and swallowed it whole. brassy neck gone stiff. falling falling fell

do i want to go there? more than meets the eye. a great love gone bad. escapologist. fantasy footler bigging it up. see the pity in the eyes. is he will he pop. so what if  as long as not on…brakes, got out. denial diversion loose chipping norton

here’s how it is…not a purty site these days. end of the road at hand. cross country beckons hollow and hilly land, no apples, gold or silver. skirting bored the subject. action stations. hold on to your huts. here comes mediocrity. riverran into the sea, the briny one across the bar, seen sea sprayed from a sick room porthole, never seen a sight that did look better looking back. shame. never mind. just the way we are.

he’d turned up at last bearing swifts

La Roi Henri!

Fool’s gold cup winner comfortably
avoids christchurch massacre fifty dead
Mullins victorious after twenty years
down 24.68 with the meagre limit
slur on play diamond crazy pinball
poor chess emits abysmal vibes,
confinement drains the brains it seems,
Bunyanesque cartoon of Che and Fidel
scrawled on vivid tablet,
lazy likenesses etched on air
not a sniff of concentration left to shred,
no way out it always seens, bad toe
crooked man walkabout denied, bad weather weekly cited,
bad company reform falls flat…too many weekends dreadful loom
nowt comes round fast in these part,
Doldrums and sabres quick depart
never a good word some folk.
encouragement viewed as suspicious
no work and no play make fuck all
channel four tells me the new old frisky
word repetition predictable choristers
one script fits all siege machines
walls and urges
a forester brevity soul of wit
what no difference again says the man in the chainsmoke
fizzy fug of fuzzy logik mizzles.
Too light it seems a door knocked
another flashing chance at bliss dismissed

was that enough for Fifteen? i could go on if pressed say buttons
constructive talks break down in shambles
How much me ole Dutch? redhanded daylight robbers loot blood money from the vampyre
in charge of the bloodbank

by seventeen the insect had taken to his airbed listening to the radio and exercising his rotten hamstring
inspired by housedust a shower was taken double quick and a frenzy of tidy up ensued
resulting in a fresh bed, pink middled chippotatas, Edgar Wallace, and bare feet–
it is a Monday

any lingering doubts left in abundance were soon diminished by the hereafter shock of hyacinth

hitting keys in time to music, rabellaisian knees up over john Brown’s body,
we’ll garner violence in the spring again
Paddy’s Day quiet as the grave in my head

keep banging away, Edgar Wallace approaches waterboat conclusion,
frantic bongos, engine afire, staccato trumpet car horn
Prang! twas clear an act of sabotage, suitor or swivel eyed git, all for the love of watersports
What makes people tick.
hanging round insecure circles
in October Jacline Mouraud,
a talkative, eccentric figure from Brittany
– accordionist, ectoplasm hunter and hypnotherapist –
posted me a video in which she denounced the tax burden on motorists,
along with speeding fines, as systematic pillage.
The 80 kph law had been in force since July and dissident
drivers were already worrying sheep
high vis jaundiced gerbils fake their presence
melt into the Parisian night
jules rumshot turns in his neon groove
remembering clandestine watering cans
forgotten down the years
eqinox already on us lettuce note
how twine flies in a strong breeze

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

From Boolavavogue to Scullabogue

 

Was it hard or what to drag myself away from the fleshpots of Enniscorthy, alive with witless raconteurs and field mice? No. I slipped out quiet in a milk bottle wrapped in mossy velvet dung and rolled silently over the cobbles, over the ledge,  & fell onto a jagged rock, the bottle smashed and out i sprang only to be carried off by funny old bird to Vinegar Hill o’er the pleasant Slaney where Buchananon’s memory lingers on to this day on the tongue swept hint lashed slow drip psyche my comely toenails…

In a jiffy pitched up on an irregular blurb and sought shelter from the shitstorm huddled together by myself in a burning barn full of fellow strangers. Outside a pitchfork ring of stokers kept the pile in order, extinguishing sparks of resistance spreading. The fire burned fast in the melting fat. Shelter from the Storm I suppose…

Sputum Time

henry flower

No Fingers four days running…feet vote  thumbs down! Eat chicken watching chicken by the rusty frazzled burner. Work is not being done. The party is over, long live the party property. I pull my knee up as far as it allows: I only have the one these days. All that water under Brooklyn bridge avoiding soft cops & hard cops took it’s toll , all that finding it wise to turn blind eyes to ‘difficult girls’ acting curiously at diet hobnob case cons

The debate on military action riviles all. Uncle Toby got his balls blown off due to a previous one, remember in the Thirty Ears War. Still no shower or food to be found. I do not mind but my strides express extreme distress. Bullshit & other emissions soon follow such auguries…Henry was always up for a rant, even the dogs on the street knew. After all it was that time…

View original post 272 more words

King Puck’s Umbrella

 

 

Here comes the zeitgeist leaving the station carrying the hope of regeneration, ants in its pants, next king of France, leading the world in a merry dance
Promised sunshine follows dawn, moon ghost spotted going by, apparition two thirds formed, melts away in sky blue sky
Ablute in ratrun kitchenette, rustle up scrambled lizard eggs. Rub up spoons, lick cheap garrottes and humiliate petite pans
The black car is gone. The white one is black. Everything changes yet remains the same apart from draylon curtains.
Ladeeze and Gennelmain, you may perhaps have noticed we are experiencing what optimists call turbulence. So no worries now then is it?
A puking cellist straddled her instrument for comic effect. It did not work. Quite the opposite. The sepulchral nuns joined in
A hippy couple argue over a game of chess. A cleaner whistles with dry lips and stops to lick spittle & gloss.
Rain drums out a crazy beat on the feeble roof, forty snare drums go off in a hurry like grapeshot, the wind gusts press heavy triggers
so the sliding doors that open and close like bad dream eyelids flutter. Came down in time for the hurricane to hit land—a close run thing in the end
Songs of sense and hypersense relegate wet shaving to a gruff rudiment, a mindless happentance a slathered automaton
Goats hum like whistlers do mowing public lawns, miming Straight Down the Middle for no apparent reason,
a lower level of primate, probiscus and mandible cover vast spongiform prairies of lawn and visog untamed by stainless steel.
Every day from here on in to the bristle end of rasping hell we flail stubble field and itchy dry facescarps— forging fresh roads to ruination,
fancy letting yourself get like that. Downhill racer clean round the bend, came a cropper on the nursery slopes, cup and lip slip,
pink blood spilt in action. Will it need stitches, Mummy? Is it leukaemia yet? No, Sarin Risotto
Well, let her grow a beard and smoke a pipe it’s her life if that’s what she’s set her heart on, said Dr Bungyman Splosh inflating the barrage balloon with some wheezy bellows.
Morning becomes elytra, shellac maintains serene veneer, acetate cures all known fictions.
Pachyderms emasculate their nails to hide from ivory hunters up promiscuous cherry trees before the fall of King Puck
Be bedazzled bot by the clumbrous pongs
rising unmoonlily from the jimcrack froth—
plumscrumptious filo pockets crumple sofa titbits
— enter stooge stage left bearing firewood & chippolatas
grinning from leer to leer (flashing black gnashers) —
ickle rood riding herd after three hard daze at the orifice,
slathering sweatshop slavver, rectal bleeds (occupational hazards)
meet someone’s needs— redundant runcible spoons for example—
f-f-fictive day doodles crayonise blank sable screens
(Yawn long to fill the gap- gap)
Removal men in socks pad about warily in fear of chicken neck complaints (knights of the goiter no doubt)· some things best left- defiant marjoram will not be sorely missed – pastures new neatly tonsured bridlepaths and rat runs.
Begins a torrent from a shifty rampage? Methinks prefer not to think not just in case.
Monsoon babies know the score do-dah do-dah
Monsoon racetrack eight miles high oh-do-da-day
Dawn on the fourth of July, opaque or what!
What! No Quips?

~

The book festival of Why-O-Why convened in a roofless cowshed on the edge of Exmoor, I have a cutlass pressed to my throat, a man called out r e d r I v e r- you follow my drift? I am being eaten alive by frocks; cloth caps pushed by in bewilderment crowd me out. I tell them I have three cats in vain. After a while, a seeming eon, they settled down to some flat chanting. What about milking? Do they not glean s t a m p e d e?
The snow was drifting, the wind was whistling, I speed read a book about Trump’s first ten years. Some caribou loped past harassed by Hell’s Angels— what are they doing here? What am I doing here? A woman reaches under her frock and unclips a green leg and rushes at me with me screaming blue murder. I have never been to Walsall, not in my mildest dreams. Damon Runyon dropped by with his name and terminated her with a wizened Yorkshire Pudding.
The feeling was nigh on tangible.

~

Push me from this silly game of withered quoits & smithereens down by yon caterpillar box to Postess Hortense’s Fabulous grotto where candy comes with faun’s eye butterfly kisses

Full on wishy-washy thinking makes small big and big impossible, soi disant oilmen don’t half drum that in, turn it up and down—on the slide the tide is always going out somewhere else

Whatever happened to wine lakes and butter mountains melting in your hand, did they just dry up or curdle up and die in steel and glass patisseries

We sing a lament to the passing of my mucus membrane which passed away into cavernous oblivion accompanied only by a lone bagpiper hopping on thin ice in the belly of a sperm whale’s personal training shoes

The first thing that strikes you when you arrive in Madagascar is two lemurs fucking— fact!

Lord Strang where are you know? Mourning the passing of a bygone age with a chihuahua shouting yah-yah in an inert gilded cage, or whipping a cajun spastic with a piece of knicker elastic, or pushing up the daisies in a epiglottis in the far off Foreign Orifice…

~

In a dream I spoke with the Cyprus-born,
And said to her,
“Mother of beauty, mother of joy,
Why hast thou given to men
“This thing called love, like the ache of a wound
In beauty’s side,
To burn and throb and be quelled for an hour
And never wholly depart?”

And the daughter of Cyprus said to me,
“Child of the earth,
Behold, all things are born and attain,
But only as they desire,—
As luck would have it
the goddess of love pitched up
out of the cerulean
blue earthenware amphora
I grabbed the opportunity to inquire—what’s gives
with the aching
burning throb in the
little toe on my left foot,
She had a look & said

Look here manchild, desire’s in there
pulling the strings
Believe me.
Take my word for it,
I really do know about these things.

Desire, huh? I just thought it was
a hen’s eye corn
giving me the run around
“The sun that is strong, the gods that are wise,
The loving heart,
Deeds and knowledge and beauty and joy,—
But before all else was desire.”

~
A funny thing happened the other day, but I missed it.
Troy fell it appears
It barely got a mention
With all that was going on
Round here
What with the weather changing
The permanent fishy smell
The limping gormless misfit
~

As a ballerina in transition
from one side to other there is one question
I get asked above all others
And that is
‘Have you met with much resistance?

I can say hand on heart
‘Little’ without fear contradiction
I care not a jot in my summer frock
Running amok
clad in Apricock

~

I like to get things
done without lifting a finger
occasionally
I like to get foodstuffs
Handed to me on a plate
It’s easiest that way I find

Who has had it away with all the Conkers?

henry flower

 

An almighty dump greets dawn at the Cut,
accompanied by a very careful and cautious bearer, who has nurtured it over
days, suffering all discomfort and self sacrifice: a Shite is Born! In repose,
drained and reflective, softly sad and relieved by its passing, the bearer
considers a yarn about the fat controllers epistles to Mountjoy Prison, where a
friend and neighbour awaits extradition, accused of drug running tons of
cannabis in the limbs and hydraulics of JCB’s. In the background the fate of
the badger is considered in the light of literature, online gaming, and cider
where it carries vital cultural significance. It is Saturday morning with all
its memories of early symptoms of my condition any moons ago: failed rushes to
the toilet, inability to get off the sofa to pee. Memories of the fall, the
collapse into Old Sparky; this and the…

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Peace breaks out in a rosy rash

 

Four chinooks pass over in diamond formation beetle
speeding after a fast car whooshes past by chance
I wonder how the giant laurel appears to flourish
In a builders bucket but get lost and give it up as a bad job
to hobble off swallowing pride over the biscuit grass
pausing only to smile back at some smiley gnomes
leaning awkward on a rotten purple fence post
entangled in wild barley corn barbed comments stifled
The pike eats up the radio, the salmon eats the lucid fridge,
opiate withdrawal you sliding slippery eel, sends a message from eternity, which reads, ‘Sorry, We’re not ready quite for you yet, there’s been an unknown known. Jemima XXX.’
~
Till all the seas run dry, my love
Till all the seas run dry, my love
Till all the seas run…
Overheated after a hard day
down the dairy with hairy Mary
wary of subtle mood swings—
the old come-all-yes take the last biscuit!
~
Big match bye bye blackbirds wretch carphone guts up
impoverished by cheap shit airlines, five hoppity hops there I limp back,
diminished by industrial scaly vodka, no sleep tribal warrior drones
bring down inflated inflatable over burnt out druids,
Ratty looking on sips her Martini dry unshaken
No hard feelings where there aint none left
Yesterday the pike with jam on did it
Today the frozen lamprey swiped it
Privet parts red sea strollers witness
Manufactured slaughter
~

For if you not for who? Mirror under water candle in your hand. Call grimalkin get hope from hearing you listening still in mid conversation at me winging it through  a nosegay of fucked up tundra floribunda– only in conversation bear in mind, only in conversation will you find this possible. Repeat thrice annually after meals of tripe and squashed unwashed tomatoes
~

Marasmus (Circular Trains)

henry flower

Nailed

glued to this yolk,

this thing…

this hearth…

this Fireplace.

We See Henry

Poking the embers,

tapping down the coals.

Then just staring:

waiting on developments, primal lavas, volcanic outbursts, fission in the core’s core.

One can have too much work & play, Fatman Statman…

He intones

He is seething, disbelieving

…

Upstairs: shower, hoover, apples and pears, butcher’s hook, Tom Tit…

…

Blag gags, whimsy, wist, jazz, flittish, jumpy, nervy, jerky, sneeze, explore, absorb, divert, digress, avoid, forget, search, amnesia, stage fright, medicate, meditate, zombie: the morning so far.

Steamed

Schemed

& Peed

…

Shortcut to indolence.

Lassitude for Beginners.

Prevarication Postponed.

How easy it is to get sucked in – back to the evaluation of all values is it then?

Best

Find some first

…

The search is on. Where did I secrete the values? Too much blog and not enough slog makes Jack…Quiet & Manageable. Happier?…

View original post 492 more words

strange seating

The room was empty. Where to sit? The floor was uneven. Look around. Stand it was. They stood. Then came mixed up voices

Tom Fool’s gold cup winner got home comfortable
avoids downtown Christchurch massacre traffic
fifty Moslems in a bauhaus mosque
Mullins victorious after twenty years of trying
down 24.68 with the meagre limit set beforehand
slur on sailor play diamond crazy pinball
poor chess emits abysmal vibes, Feeling dirty compromised.

confinement drains the brains it seems, scrawled in green biro
Bunyanesque cartoon of Che and Fidel
scrawled on vivid orange tablet,
lazy likenesses etched on air
not a sniff of concentration left to shred,
no way out it always seems, bad toe
Poking from the bed
Watch on as a crooked man hobbles,
bad weather sets in,
bad company reform movement
falls flat at the first
…too many weekends heaped dreadful loom
nowt comes round fast in these particles,
Doldrums and sabres quick depart
never a good word for anyone some folk.

encouragement viewed as confidence trick
no work and no play make us woeful sick
channel four scoops new world disorder
Television crews amass at the border
To capture predictable wholesale slaughter

word repetition costs seven daughters
predictable choristers hipster jeaned
Insist one script fits up to date siege machines
walls and urges as springtide surges
Flows in the veins of demiurges
a forester bloomful of brevity soul & wit
Off to have a morning shit

what no difference again
says the man in the chainsmoke tux
Wherein a fizzy fug of fuzzy
logik mizzles down.

Too light it seemed as a door knocked
~

another flashing chance at bliss
dismissed by wrong ‘un in fading light
was that enough for Fifteen?
i could go on if pressed say my buttons
But constructive talks broke down in an utter shambles
How much me was that silver worth me ole Dutch?

Redhanded daylight robbers on the loose
extract
blood money from the vampyre
in charge of the blood bank

by seventeen the insect
had taken to his airbed
listening to the radio
and
exercising hamstrings

inspired by house dust
a shower was taken
In double quick time
and
a frenzy of tidy up
resulted in a fresh bed,
raw chippolatas butter no parsnips,
Edgar Wallace entertains
and bare cold naked feet–
it
is a Monday
After all

Any
lingering doubts
Are soon dispersed by
Berserkers & skirmishers
sniffing squirming hyacinth bugs

grace in abundance
soon diminished by
hitting keys in in seven eight time,
Droning on half crazed at a Rabellaisian knees up
Upper volta polka darg
vodka party woke John Brown’s bodybag,
–we’ll garner violence in the spring again

Paddy’s Day this year was as quiet
as the graveyard called your head keeps banging away,
Edgar Wallace entertains on
frantic ali bongos, starboard engine
explodes over Chalfont St Giles,
staccato car horn blast screech
Prang! twas clear an act of sabotage,
Plain as the nose on the good side of your face
whole world hates you mirror cracks
While swivelly eyed gits spew bile
all for the love of that waterfall feel
~

So what makes people tick tack tock?
hanging round describing insecure circles
Only last October Jacline Mouraud,
a talkative, eccentric digger from Brittany
– accordionist, ectoplasm hunter and hypnotherapist –
posted you a video in which she renounced
the tax burden on onanists,
along with speeding fines, as post traumatic pillage.
The 80 croissant edict had been in force since July and dissident
drivellers were already worrying sheep
high vis jaundiced gerbils faked their id
melted into the Parisian night
jules rimet turns purple in his neon groove
remembering clandestine tete a tetes
forgotten down the years
equinox already before us Jacline

time is an aide memoire scrawled
on a proverbial eyelid
Over the ephemeral hinterland we implore
spit no more bilious pox spores
On our royal progression
fill it in with sand
after sedentary precision bombing, por favor

Buenos Aires music wafts across the dormant shire

‘..suc squeezze bangblo
suck suck suck suck
bang blow
suck sucksqueeze bang blow
suck suck suck suck
squeeeze squeeze & bangblow
suc squeezze & bangblo
suck squeezy ban glow
suk queasy bang blow
Suck sucksuck sucksuck
didle dum
blow bang…

The composter of the week’s broke down
on learning tomorrow is already vernal equinox
(well! I’ll be….);
feeling stronger, calmer, safer on my sea saw legs, able to accomplish those essential tasks,
perhaps it is just a silly phase (lifetimes spent in seedy stations touching wood take heed)
i am going through Crewe tonight
Yet contact with the real
world is further away than ever
what do you say these days
are greetings still permissible
Or admissible evidence of sweet intent?
Or are they better deemed knife edge danger
immediately thinking buffet bar incident on Air Force One
better stay put and come up with a better
else repeat the same mistake twice
Footwear helps– buy some sensible sandals

Open toed, ankle supported, well heeled.
Stepping out in stylofoam!
Dressed up to the nines come Lent’s end
In dishcloth, reds and ashes:
jesus christ they will exclaim
when they see you coming through the haze
You who used to follow us back in sixty-three
Type cast since as crushed silk Bellboy
Kept my lip buttoned all night long
Knowing what they are capable of
doing unto otherness
~

Found a tranquil spot sitting smelling spring break over muddy spot
A flower whistling wash up
~pot by dry fork

No shortcut to elegant script―

be

Six remains in light still just
strong enough
to type by
Found a place to

Getting dark how LED
Zeppelin
Circled
Frankfurt Aerodome
Drastic altitude change to water FRONT

‘after Baudelaire

Like those angels with rough
– rough or roughened eyes
I’ll come back to the little alcove
where you try to fall asleep.

I’ll slip in between the sheets
without a sound
from the dark, no the darksome night,
and I’ll give you, burnt woman
the coldest of kisses
and the hugs of a snake
in a smelly grave.

When the dawn comes without a sound
you’ll find no one in my place
and till the evening it’ll be cold
– ah so cold there.

Others they try to be kind
– kind and tender to you
but I want to hold
your quaking body like a vice.’

Tom Paulin wrote this
As Bo Diddley
Didnae

Your turn to have a go
Lean forward
Fifth one up is white
As a sheet
Of
Blank A4

Have i signed or have u?
Tricky one

…

henry flower

‘Henry who?’

‘Flower.’ Said the grim reaper, leaning nonchalantly on his scythe.

‘Sorry, buddy. Never heard of the guy’, Edward G bluffed as Henry trembled in the larder.

‘Your face rings a bell. Have we met before?’ the grim reaper lingered with stony menace. ‘Anyway here’s my card.’

Edward G took it and read: Fred McMurray – Escort to the Stars.

‘Quasimodo, sanctuary factotum.’

They shook hands coldly.

‘I knew that face rang a bell! Sorry to have bothered you.’ McMurray took his leave. Henry groaned an atavistic groan.

‘That was a close shave.’

‘No worries, Henry old man. I’ve had dealings with that guy before. Should have given him the chair.’

‘Is that customary?’

‘Was once…was once. They get away with murder these days.’

‘Who? Chair-menders.’ Henry was perplexed.

‘No, murderers.’ Said Edward G, a sinister impudence broke across his pudgy, little face. ‘Time for the quail’s eggs and…

View original post 10 more words

Life on Earth

The regular beatings grew frequentby dint, the anxiety swelled. Some days pushing its way to the base neurosis was as much as I could handle.

–       So now you see, don’t you, he concluded, that’s when the homework ate my dog.

Lame as hell, but true. Mengele had really stitched me up this time. Good job we do not have a dog, uncles don’t count with this crowd of anthropomorhs.

–       What happened to the bear then?

Shat in the woods wasn’t gonna cook it.

–       Poachers, I replied, it’s that time of year.

–       Next thing you’re gonna say is that Elvis is not dead

–       Wow, how did you know that.

…

Four days in the cooler was small beer for me. After all, I was a British citizen with all that entails. How could they break you down when you were already broke? Did they seriously think that participant observation of a Polar Bear would pass without incident. Even I could see that it was another set up.

…

–       You’re early today, three minute warning was it?

Sarcasm in the servile is so unbecoming.

–       What happened to your homework?

–       It became a Persian rug.

Horse Attitudes

I dreamt last night Blodwyn wanted my foals. What on earth would she want with an old Rouncey like me? Pulling a wagon load of personality disorders around in all weathers from gig to gig; listening to their whining and whinging. They call themselves Prankstas and I am Banjo and it’s a wonder that I am still black and not white after two years of this drudgery. Still, there’s a few miles left before I get put out to pasture if I am lucky; or eaten if I’m not. That’s if this most uncivil war don’t get me sooner.

‘I know, Banjo, I know.’ said the nightingale on my nose.

This is some succour after last night’s near death experience on the main road north. A close run thing and that’s how we ended up here: Toker’s Green, a wooded crossroads and some respite from the troubles for a wee while, but not for long so if the owl was right last night. Things are boiling up all over and our chances of making it to King’s Oak for the first night of the Aristophanes are bleak.

‘You’ll be just fine, just fine’ said the nightingale and gave me a kindly peck.

‘Things will work out. No need for the long face, Banjo!’

Ha-bloody-ha!

I snort and shake my head and the cheeky little bugger scoots off to the ploughed field over the way to find some morning goodies.

There goes Seth in his chicken clobber with a peg on his nose to fetch sticks in the copse. Blodwyn comes sashaying over and we share a companionable lump of meagre greensward; a starter for the main feed when Seth gets the fire on. He is good like that.

‘Seth, where are you? What’s that bloody smell?’

It’s little Bolshie Annie – heart of gold underneath all the fuss and bluster – calling to her man to be. He doesn’t stand a chance resisting this feisty little juggernaut of love. Mind you, he doesn’t want to; she just doesn’t know that yet.

‘Dover deer dust detting dood dove!’

‘Wot?’

‘Sorry Pet, clothes peg on me nose. The wind changed in the night’

‘What is it, though? It’s nothing like ordinary muck’

‘Human slurry, I reckon’ Seth posited preoccupied with matters at hand.

‘Human?’ Annie quizzed

‘Can’t you smell the fast food?’

‘Your pulling my leg!’ Annie suspended disbelief or credulity or both.

‘Not yet I’m not! There’s some clothes pegs on the buckboard: they work’

‘You’re all heart’ she chuckled as she dropped down from the second of the covered wagons: Pranksta two, we call it.

‘Would you get the kettle and stuff out? I’ll be back with the wood in a minute’

‘What about Blodwyn and Banjo?’

I love this woman sometimes!

‘I’ll sort them out, but you could fill the pails. There’s an old pump over the road. You never know, might work’

Annie looks strangely fetching in her penguin suit as she waddles across the road with a pail in each hand. Seth returns, imperious in his cockerel garb, carting firewood. Like clockwork these two – quite a pair, I reckon. I hear a familiar whistle in the distance. What is that tune? St. James Infirmary or Basin St: it’s stopped, like it heard me hearing it. No, that’s mad, it can’t be. Not here.

‘What on earth is that dreadful stench chaps?

Blimey, it has even permeated Hugo’s heightened state!

‘Chicken vindaloo, mushy peas, four season’s pizza, donerkebab, more mushy peas, falafel, and anchovies and flat lager and sangria at the last count: Morning Hugo, how the devil are we?’ Seth explained setting the fire.

‘Hi Seth. Whatever are you going on about?’ Hugo was struggling with the climb down and holding a conversation; but, disappointingly, did not fall and ruffle his raven outfit too much.

‘Fast food fallout in other words. The wind changed’ Seth got the fire burning after a couple of goes.

‘I see.’ Hugo did not see at all as he focussed on his adjusting his head.

Annie left me and Blodwyn a pale of lovely sweet, fresh well water and we tuck in. Nice.

‘The pumped worked miraculously. Unless the mobs have turned it Deadlock is three miles east and Wedlock is four north. Morning Hugo, oh good you got the fire going. I’ll fill the kettle. Have you seen all those birds?’

‘So maybe those devos weren’t talking crap last night and really did blow up the sewage farm.’ Seth stoked and mulled.

Hugo, after a preen in the mirror, hopped over.

‘And I thought it was the bloody nags!’

Steady on boss, you’re living dangerously! I old fashion him with a guffaw.

‘Got any of the poncey coffee we liberated from Hemlock?’ Annie asked him putting the kettle on.

‘Just the Quillalamba, tragically’

‘Prat!’ said a crow above me.

‘Well, make yourself useful and get it while I see to Blodwyn and Banjo, will you?’ Seth ordered curtly and Hugo hopped off for a rummage in Pranksta One.

‘Shall I call Tilly while I’m here’ Hugo yelled.

‘You just have’ grumped Tilly from Pranksta Two.

We get the nosebags and have our oats. Blodwyn glides off to see Tilly now she’s had a good rest after last night’s hassle and I hear that whistle again. It’s getting pretty close now and it is Pal Joey and he doesn’t mind me knowing because he knows it’s me. The birds are really flappy now. This is going to be a strange one.

‘Here we are’ Hugo hops back with the coffee in his beak

‘You could use your hands sometimes, you know’ Annie’s tamps at the silly bugger.

‘It’s the method, darling: the method! The more you become the part the more it works!’

‘There’s plenty of idiots in The Birds for sure’ interjected Seth seeing a ruction in the offing’

‘Quite’ Hugo went for a flap.

‘Mind you, the method doesn’t work if you’re bursting for a crap first thing.’

Hugo halted mid prance and hopped off to the woods. I laugh and Annie laughs. Seth smirks bashfully and Tilly Red Breast emerges from the second wagon, smiles, and gestures the hedge.

My binocular gaze is transfixed with Blodwyn’s comely chestnut rump as she ushers her significant human to a place of safety.

…

Cuckoo clocks my arrival at the crossroads.

The congregation of birds wait in the trees, the Prankstas are in conference,

The  Prankstas, huh, some kinda minstrels or weirdos? For my part and for the purposes of today I am Pal Joey: International troubleshooter and bearer of Weenies.

As I approach in this guise there is the usual anxiety. People could never get used to my crushed cotton white suit. It might have something to do with my albino black skin and seven feet of height. Ma always told me to make a lasting first impression and she was always wrong: Poor Beulah.

‘Good morning, Sir. Who might you be?’ inquired Hugo, flourishing a wing and mawking a bow.

‘Good question, Mr. Raven. A parliamentarian one, if I can make so bold, and one worthy of such a response as this: None. Just call me Pal Joey’

That got the rest giggling. The Raven guy’s a stooge prop: Bad pressure valve – like Nixon.

‘Coffee, Pal Joey’ sad the Penguin lady: ‘My name is Annie, the raven is Hugo, and these two are Tilly and Seth’

‘Hello!’ the Robin and the Chicken shook my mittened hand.

Good honest grips.

‘Neat costumes, dudes. Aristophanes; Birds?’

‘Got it in one! Would you like a boiled egg’

‘Yes, please ma’am. Have you some Welsh in you?’

‘I beg your pardon’

‘A traditional repast for the traveler in mid-Wales,’ I explained remembering the weenies, ‘do you eat hot dogs?’

‘Not I, sweet wayfarer, I am vegan’ announced Hugo ‘my days gorging the flesh of beast and fowl are ended’

‘Rather, you become the inside of a raven!’

Not bad, not bad

‘The air would not be so foul if all of Deadlock were vegan, Mr. Pal.’

‘True Mr. Raven, so true’

‘If you are what you eat then we will be hotdogs after those this’ said Tilly metaphysically.

‘Or bird dogs’ thought Banjo so loud I nearly choked on my coffee.

‘All the more for the rest of us then, cheers Pal! Are you okay?’

‘Slipped down the wrong way’

Annie put a saucepan of for the weenies. I got the rolls and chili sauce out of my carpet bag and Seth ripped one off a string around his neck.

‘Coq au Vin is my destiny’

What the hell is he on about? These guys are a bit whacked!

We supped and feasted. Makah, who they called Banjo, was listening hard trying to figure out what I was up to. But, hey, I got no secrets. These guys are in the eye of a storm and they had better get out before the scum turn up.

‘So where are you heading next?’

‘We’re aiming for King’s Oak’ said Seth taking a pause from the hot dog.

‘That is rough country, Mr. Chicken. I struggled to get through the Doums in Wedlock and that was on foot. Two wagons, the horses and you four is advertising trouble.’

‘We got to get there for the opening night of the play’

‘When’s that?’

‘Next Friday but we need to rehearse and prepare well in advance of that’ interjected Hugo.

‘So, Wednesday latest: two days is a big ask in this chaos: Yessir, one tall order.’

They don’t stand a chance with those crazies all over the show.

‘Can you postpone, chief? Civil strife and all that jazz?’

Here we go, Makar. Sorry, Banjo! Banjo sighed and shuffled behind me. He knew they were in a bind; known it for a long time if you ask me. Uproar and recrimination invade the camp fire place. Let them have a spat for a couple of minutes till they’re out of puff. I see what old Banjo makes of what’s here name? Rhiannon, no Blodwyn. I get mussed up sometimes with all this Celtic guff; have done ever since my time back in New Orleans hanging out with Ken Toole in The Irish Channel. Sad loss, Ken!

‘…well, if we stay here we’re sitting ducks. At least we agree on that, don’t we’ Tilly summarised sharply.

‘She’s not wrong, Prankstas. Wedlock’s out, Deadlock’s chaos after the bomb at the sewage works, back is the great road north, and west is Diddums heartland, Bullock. There ain’t no way out but up or down.’

I look up at the overladen trees like a thoughtful Satchmo album cover.

‘Preposterous, we have no shovels!’ Hugo blurted.

I heard Banjo’s heart flutter as the penny dropped and he remembered the Alamo. Man, us Pookas go back a long way! Hippocampus days.

Shoot, who are those guys? The media already; yes, it is. So, the revolution is being televised after all, Gil.

‘Get and rig up the horses and put your gear on! Quick now, I’ll go and delay them’

‘Delay who?’ said Annie

‘Whom!’ said Hugo

She chased him over to the horses with the saucepan.

‘I shall return, as my old pal Doug said when he left the Philippines’

‘Macarthur you mean! Who are you?’

‘Pal Joey to you, Mr. Chicken’

I better get going there’s a lot to do and the hen smells a rat: Banjo is in charge here now. I’m strictly backroom from hereon. Shalom, Banjo. Where’s my staff? You can’t get decent ones these days. There we are and her we go. Whistle while you walk!

Go Down, Moses.

Go…down…Moses

Let my people go-go!

…

Feeling trippy from the intuition water, Pal Joey won’t be back.

‘Showtime, Banjo, old son.’

What’s this Seth’s putting on my head? Not that bloody caparison; yep, know the smell. Blinkered now, sod it. Now the harness, getting rigged up: Clunk, clank. Blodwyn too. Where are we going? The forces are at work, but I am scared. Plopetty-plop. That’s better!

Up, up, and away

Over the canopy

Up, up, and away

Above the tree

Up, up, and away

To safety

So chanted a throaty mynah in my right lug, like a voice box after a cancer op: the cameras and reporters are swarming, the noise is mindwracking…

Lights, camera, action:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Banjo!

Zodiac trombones and lamb’s lettuces corrupt; tummyache enzymes convulse midst knots of golden dawn air and twisted gastric juices vying for top plum. Lingo-bingo tumult erupts at the Top Rank  Ballroom. The Outsider wears under a charcoal fedora and smokes black Russian coffin nails under the half-parabola of a squiffy streetlight.

‘Who was it you were after, buster?’ the Nightingale rings out from the alley.

But the man had slipped away into the dark recesses of Baby Jane Rd. and there is no echo of footsteps on the cobble surface. This guy was a pro, he wore loafers.