Eight bells, sundown…
Molten golden idling gown, catch worm casts
shadow lampshades gloam, come dance this
Critical, you must do,
Momentary, exemplary, contemporary
fly toff fancy, impish man, cuneiform
zero: trousers inside underpants!
See small things fade insignificant, rhubarb
Leaf green mottle release sorb daub…One bell,
Mr Sundowner, that race is well run, just
glad it was when it was, time and place past,
inspired, the candle understands. Lights on…
Coffee pot sunk,
Clunk, glug drunk,
Sing off tune songs,
An old Jew’s harp prism, makes corona
schism, sees the heaven’s children glisten,
heeds bystanders syllogism, shut up
if you care to listen! Says let sly ones be
bygones, give away the ghosts, or a new world
disappears, defy at your peril swell your
placid eyes with tears. Comet’s trails point away
from the sun, seek out a place in deeper space.
For, if this love does not illuminate,
it won’t be for a want of hate for hatred,
dressed up to thrill the fat potentate
his opinion of himself inflated
soon to implode, unconditionally sated.
Below decks I ate wild mushrooms in scrambled eggs,
warm Parma ham,and a choice, prime cut, brown bap,
Oodled in buttery herbs, then, replete,
ascended , fortified to sullen work
after a digestive puff
A glimpse of sun is better than none,
must learn to be more grateful for these, my gifts,
the vessel drifts, time floats, ice too.
Less temperate climes, incursive east wind,
will blast and burn, singeing our lashes
saying only we have committed sin
a mortal sin, the sin of not being them.
Leeward, a cacophony and splashes
Dolphins, a school, weirdly mocking, unabashed.
dour Teutonic one,
sad sardonic one,
improving on perfection for the hell of it,
making your own bed, lying in it,
finding your head in clear,
sour, demonic one,
crazed hispanic one,
enjoying your rejection for the shell of it,
having you own cake and eating it,
resting your bones over there,
not a chronic one,
a down the drainpipe one,
tolling your bell for the tell of it,
being yourself and loving it,
holding a winning hand,
Canon fodder law,
martial copper law,
common senseless law…
Runaway, runaway, runaway
To where, to where, to where?
Have a week in Mozambique;
worry sheep in Martinique;
act suspicious in Mauritius;
bake Alaska in Madagascar..
Chuck the world in a bucket,
drop it in the wishing well
coughed a cough someone could hear
grabbed and kissed the solid air,
looked into the Frigidaire,
and put away the butter.
folded up his underwear,
placed them neatly on a chair,
washed his ears, his nose, his stare,
and went off to play Mah Jong
felt the need to disappear,
not another fucking year,
like the last yet more severe,
once they had a future.
was a thought that got too near,
pledge to not give in to fear,
get the fuck right out of here,
find a warmer climate
is just the time of year,
the fallen apple, the prickly pear
far’s too far, near’s too near
the reason of the season
No aims, no lords, just me, and the sea…
Snug in the lap and rock, the slop and plash
Diving deeper, the sleeper plumbs new depths
Of woozy deep, slithers, warm down the unseeable
Billowing liquid flames of the core, the temenos,
Breeched and hewn by exquisite heat, forging a
Pillowed inglenook in which to mosspot ease.
This is no dark blue luxus dreamt up
in tune or sketch, no symphonic flood,
folk smoke trail stream or ramble.
It lies here with the corpuscle
glitching grike soft timorous in the mammoth,
anemone corner of the one now clear
smiling eye behind the fourth stone.
Another bitty night, the wind’s to blame,
the Ham, the game, the Cheese, they all took part,
but did not do what you did, Maria…
You sly one, you twisted, silent, deadly sister
Due to your emission, I will suffer
endless tumult and derision and you will
live to lie in pastures new as if butter did not melt
Guts are a bit choppy, the wind’s to blame
I explain to the assembled throng who
Conclude it was me, not you who caused the pong
Now, simpled, feeling a complicit tool
You play it Cool, queen the art of cool,
woman’s grudge is women’s definition,
Powder your nose, pass the ammunition.
some deaf, bewildered beast,
slopes in slow, bright, sane delight…
Brown Ground drowned,
Sound wind opaque,
Cimarron smokey lake
flock tactile mural peak
Cowling dented tin wind,
Taste hot silent sin
Away! Cooling. Down…
…Meet and Eat
Alfresco with Francesco
Baked Alaska? Alabaster
Just in time
Old war wound
Ramona, can you hear the Dockyard calling:
She nods, coy, distant.
Clanking, drag chains clamour, trailing frantic
Sombre empty vessels grey steel hulls
Slide into the salty sea
Growling heinous savage asides
Pledge revenge to be wreaked on distant
Raiders who may ask no mercy from on high:
Old footpads, pickpockets, chancers, wizened rouge
Cloth-capped shipwrights puff butts, feeling high
Looking hard, keenly noting blemishes, repairs,
Defects, work to do, and slow stare
behind at the crap strewn, broken,
dust clouded, scorched slipway
Mass observers congregate dumbstruck,
awed on the wrecked slipway
gazing in sombre wonder, muttering as Klaxons screech
The dust clears and the naked, absurd hulk flops
Quite near distant, adrift, buoyant.
Water spumes from tyred tugs jet,
Spray polluted tears from on high
Drenching squabbling gulls,
who craw and repair
to the dry side of the hull.
Ramona’s smiles, shining apostolic, in the dull
Room, barely heed the clamour on the stairs,
She undresses easy, I sigh,
Another Liberty Ship underway
Waiving the rules of the wolf
The racket distant, now less frantic
The crowd disperses, now less antic
Fleeting ecstasies, comparing, admiring
Nifty clips of the hull:
The news of recent street
Melt in stealth, frantic
To avoid the attentions of the rugger buggers
Muscling raucous wild things, corporal bulwarks
Flailing, clubbing, brutes culling
Conviction for conviction’s sake
What did he ever
do for me
What indeed! Stopped world war three –
that’s a start.
An indefinite postponement so far,
It would be very bad for business, it
an argument that held water
a popular viewpoint among those
who knew who
John Kennedy was.
And for those who didn’t
A chance, an opportunity
to find out.
To shut or open the Zen on the Art of Bridge,
Faust, Kafka – easy listening!
Getting my bearings, settling in, making a mess, feeling awkward.
The Bridge. I know this place well, too well. The scene of the crime, witness to disaster, base misdemeanours, sullied by cleansing agents, violated by animals, jumbled up, dumped on, dumped in.
The Bridge. Here dreams are born, and mares lived out. Stories of horses; hateful verses, grudging verses diluted. These are bad vibes. This time will be different, this is not a retreat. It’s a crucible, a temenos.
The Bridge. A place to prepare yourself in order to be yourself.
to shut or open the door at whim.
Knocks are needed to gain entry.
Paling to significance,
Brad the Impaler, a pied butcher bird,
whistles a chirpy tune
(Imagine, if you will,
a melodic baritone
and skewers a shrew for the barbie.
Life read and heard in tooth and claw,
one sighs through clenched teeth.
‘This is all the weather you get,
so you’d best enjoy it…Grrghh!’
says a balaclavad scimitar weatherman.
I will, I will!
Promise I will, croons Brad.
Look Ma, No land!
Outward bounding sounding.
Leap in the dark chart.
Trust me. Trust the boat.
Shiver me timbres, if you must.
Anchor me and I stop.
Mistreat me and you will suffer at your own hands.
Freedom is yours.
Sez whose army?
Smell cloved rind, take deep draughts of zestful Pomander.
Ambergris, musk, or civet – know not which
smell hangs round my neck.
Old stale boxers, empty horses, prize-fighters,
ring rusted, knocked out, punch trunks.
No. Clean out last night.
Socks and slippers, forget me not when I forget thee.
Tweet, tweet, dive
Survived the ambush, another sell buy shooting:
left gazpacho kippers out flat, plumb tuckered,
gobbled up with occidental relish.
Post war: Daphnia, Delia, and Celia skip
a light fandango with Mandingo, leave him manacled,
popsickled, humbled: prone to pillage.
Pesky parishioners, villainous villagers, codpiece Carmellites,
how they muddled meddle,
wild hunters pass by like trappist hoodlums.
Silent but deadly
Past Full moon, Rowan hides it,
cloud gusts fade to wispers.
Hunters swoon with exertion,
rest in peace
on mauve nasturtiums.
On small plate,
Or plate for
three smoked fish
lay brown dead
Breached by blade
Flaked by hand,
Torn up by
Ate by mouth.
On old black chair
In candle glow,
by the roundtable’s
Archway segment shade.
Young black dog, curled up,
on old black chair.
A bit of eye open, yellow flicker,
slowly blinking, basking. Closed.
Lids move, quick, hunting, chasing,
Running, running, running.
Am I there?
Am I in it?
Characters surge in teeming, broiling tumults
Who, what, where, what are they yarns compose
spun, weaved, forged, tempered, cast, distorted
drawing, and withdrawing breath
from titbits of storylines,
Here and there, then and now, you have
Upsizings, threats, strengths, and weaknesses:
absurdities, absurd ditties, odd ways and beings.
See all these in a blustered, supple,
yielding, ready-berried Rowan; or in a tumbril,
air, toccata, fug, or others mirrored Mindseyes,
especially on these severe, unsettled October days.
Every morning while
jumping up and down
Call out the names of
those you wish the best.
Do any of them live with you,
in the same flat or house,
the same shanty town,
sewer, shop doorway, aqueduct…?
Or someone who won’t get up,
left their shit in your way,
left the toilet seat up, snores,
had their head chopped off,
talks endless twaddle…
How very surprising.
Have a Nice Day.