It is wet out.
The weekend taken up with boozing: Jameson’s & four bottles of rotgut red (I am wearing the dregs). Yesterday was bed and groaning death. Today is puny, soiled consequences. Watched Hockney. You and I are the vanishing points of depiction. Ways of seeing. Burred and shaky lenses, and the rest. At least I got something down that will not reappear. Time out is never time absent.
No Finger by the look of it; shower and eat, creaking floorboards; clean up time without recriminations. No hard feelings, wash the ceilings.
Finger angry at leaks. Showered! It rains. Dirt rows, walking okayish despite brutalisation. Need a feed, which will be soon. Some call it lunch. Bed made…
Metropolis…a
Hew rugged slither
yesterday’s one tray pork roast,
suitably dried up
penitential fare fuels wet
parlous noonday situation.
Grey March murk supplies
the worldview damp dust thin mud.
Still I am glad to
Survive weekend onslaught
With my genius still intact
Mah Jong defeats, head fucked, thirst, agitation, sharp movements, ouches…
Tuesday, 17 March 2015
Gone noon on this St P’s,
Scruffbeard sheepshed on borstal rations,
abscess makes the smarting fonder,
cruelty is the name of Norman.
Finger does some shipping on the Senior Surface…
Cleaned up as
best I wanted,
feeling slumpish,
hope not offish.
Make a wishlist.
Worst it can do
is not come true
if you’re careful.
The glums are dripping,
grumbling swamp gobs.
I have just done
more this morning
than all weekend.
Ghost revealed his hairy hand,
trimmed his balded pate,
gave himself the willies,
curled up before the liars on the telly,
waiting on next second wind
to fumigate the fuggers.
Enough of the broad brush. Detail & content. The daily day began with a three am crap call from a night of pestering, kept hearing the beeps till seven, up at nine. Walked the mile, grabbed some coffee, felt badly done by and in. The moaning gang buggered about, got some wine, fags and rolls gotten. Then the cleaning and the cooking, and the clipping. Ate and swooned, ate again, had a glass of wine; repelled the vileness to its pit above. Did a post, put on some more red stuff and deckchair trousers. Applied aloe vera to the blue vein skin. Booze, fags, strong coffee, confinement. It is all there…
Swinging awkward, the yellow hatch hangs, broken black latch pranged, jammed sash, dead lead, busted: gust & wuther, past hope No, no, no, no…swinging weird, hanging, creaking, flapping, niggling eye, raking ear,
Three. Early or Late? Afternoon night. Wanna, wanna, wanna…find something out. Walkies? Yep, and cleaned up again! Angered by people. Legs raging red. Blood boiling. Need to chill. Pent up frustration seething. Smoke another cigarette. Put up legs. Every little yelps…fag out. Took a stroll, very cold, too bold. Clout holed. Straggling along at 16:37. Teatime? White wine. Unfancied.
Succumb to the yielding day. PM. This is frusters, dusters, musters…clusters?
Look! Gurning gargoyles
Gurgling grotesquely gargling
Vatican hogwash
Fluted green fretwork
Luminous picture book snap
Big house on priory
Vibe changes sundown
Clustered scapples save the day
White wine weds olives
Anglepoised action stations
Awaiting further information
To impart to my reader
Zelda ‘Toots’ Zuchenslooper
A dogged fighter
Carnivorous wolverine
Hypercyclically disposed
Tea and oranges
| W |
ednesday, 18 March 2015
Grey pall, fog’n’smog, lavender pillow wafts. Got six, thereabouts. Budget Day ballyhoo; fruit & veg; bring me sunshine in your smalls…gonna get more rest. Hey! Let’s buy a hospital and forget it when the money ain’t enough; let the mugs pick up the bill again. Ha-ha-ha…
One bottle of white. Olives and Stilton, tapenade, white rolls, spinach salad, scrambled eggs, Cajun salmon, tinned mackerel – no wonder, Kaunda! Note the wine effect on skin, translucent pasty reddened. Un-nice to beholders. Scuffs assured, flaky factors, shower steam and A’s Ale, end of life stare…
18:28
Stark naked park oak
Bronze burns amber sundown
White copper glare
Traffic blazes slowmo trail
Sparkler impromptu squiggles
Embossed on slow retina
Fading as the day is done
…
Sure is
a long way to tip
O’Reilly
after a lamb
steak breakfast,
some
in and out in
the cold
sunny morning
it
is as back
to be to
wooze
my way
through
abject budget
to wake
disjointed,
alone,
aware of somewhere
droning phone call.
Action!
A sunny day to
do, do, do, do
Day.
Cleared sills of pot-bound,
unkempt,
neglected plants,
hung them
on the bare chestnut thing by the hosepipe;
other clutter was binned.
My
requests for the phone had been ignored.
Uproar from moon-face,
someone stole the eagle
when we were romping
in the dunes!
Cooked and cleaned,
took some sun,
feeling flustered,
agitated,
un-calm
irks–
not
the myself I wanted at all.
Rushed and hassled
by mendacious laxity
is another way of looking at it.
Yet another
is defiant anger and rage –
too much energy needed,
diversion from the task at hand,
cost/benefits,
ums & arghs
to weigh up.
I pressed on and even showered before here,
after an orange,
and that work of art above about a chance sunset
while playing pinball and listening to the news upstairs…
Food again, knackered now; pills had; bomb calls, not now.
Few hits on Eggset Stun,
disappointed coz it took
hard, focussed effort.
Self-Critiquette:
Not enough/too much;
busked the picture, themes;
wiped it out too fast.
(Old Rabbits die hard)
Serious.
Too rushed…it don’t work like that, pal!
| T |
hursday, 19 March 2015
No wine. Food, exercise, work, and shower. Must stick it out better. Get the head in, up, down, out…anywhere but there. Urgency of pressing unknown outcomes, the quest of grail. Heads up, heads down.
Occasionalism; the tory push, London gawking; al Ghazali, fire & coffins; The Incoherence; Danny on the growing of shallots; cleaned the galley; at a banana; feel heavy, uneasy weariness; grey day down on me. Old as the hulls; the class view, them & them; I & I; you & me; us & us. The Who we were, the when we was, the whatness of being. ‘More like Wolf Hall than Whitehall’, wags a wit biting sound, of own voice. More money, more money…Heinz Baked Beanz. Sufism. Soupism. Iran, India, Pakistan, Indonesia. The Great Scholar. Sharia at the end, pour quoi! Morning spritz, brekkers needed. Down your neck, my son…
Whereto?
Ah,
dodgy chocolate
gift horse
looked right in maul
Gazebo effect.
Funny bunnies
buff quartz hob.
Hereto!
Ah
lump of fat,
sugar fixed,
down to zero,
crucifixed
The great wen has its say:
sausage & raw garlic,
soggy salad,
stale pumpkin & linseed toasties,
all washed down with cold,
café au creosote
fetid bathwater
stolen from the bird sanctuary
below the Kasbah: this takes the edge of my hunger pangs.
All wasted on twaddle chat
Lazy slop repels
The feckless bewildered.
It’s sure a wonderful liff…
Made my bed to lie in…
Soon I suppose
I better had
Thursday
was that morning…
15:27
The day is not the same now. There is just me. All the duty calls are done. Provision is made. Nothing of substance will do done till ‘it’ gets warmer, whatever ‘it’ is. New toy, Oh-Ee-Oh…
Yes. Just all the work to do now. Climb back on the mountain you sloped off in a huff, jostled, harassed plain crowded out; underwhelmed, derided, cajoled, mobbed; sent packing, expunged, expelled, tolerated, suffered, bullshitted; deceived, despised, derided. They are gone for now. Just me and the mountain and the spoonful of dust that has my name.
All plain sailing now
Terminal velocity achieved
What it said on tin
One hour on…
Head phoned
Left a message
Will call back.
Friday, 20 March 2015
Sense of humour
Perished alongside sanity
Deceptions playmate
Living with depression
Is no laughing matter
No one sees the joke
When they are the brunt
Miserable bastards who
Take themselves so seriously
Kill joy everywhere
With truculence
More Self, first on Question Time & now on a radio quiz with a palaeolithic handbag and Giles Brandreth. Breathing time from WIP above. Slept all evening after boiled eggs and a weary, wearing, wearisome struggle with food and disease.
Bad air obscures partial eclipse not smog no smoke miasma closer europen pollution seeking asylum xenophobes aghast told you so polythene tunnel eden project way forward out…
Purple plumbum stratus hood sphere…
01:22
Lay down…
Seven up, up, up
The wooden stairs ascent
To disburthenshire
Saturday, 21 March 2015
Half-twelve the very next day after the invisible eclipse, emasculated by clouds as is this cold Saturday. Wall-to-wall rugby, dosser on the toilet at the mere mention of doing. Three bottle day – two white, one red; feeling fittingly fragile, about the fall of the surface of the space rock, one magpie looking for diamonds in the shite. Did the idiot on the phone routine…self-disgust, amplification, tired anxiety – yes, a fucking hangover.
Boiled eggs, cut bread, had a wurst with it. There are grapes, freshly washed and in need of consumption, the lurid washing is annoying me, flickering like a migraine in the corner of my eye. Wales score…
To let it all fall away, the cladding, the creaking musty armour of defeat, the rags of going for it. All that weight to drag around, useless ballast hanging heavy, stunting my growth, twenty four minutes is not half an hour, do you want an argument? The lazy agitator is returned with a niggle, fearful of nothing to sulk about, making hell to snuggle up with in misery, laggard spreading rancour for rancour’s sake. Hassle and row desired, please apply within. ‘Look at me, pay your dues to attention, take the squalid bait, I simply insist. This must be so. It is my space to poison and do not forget it. Your chum and lifemate.’
Remember my musk
Fell off the barren surface
Third stone from a sun
Jerks temporal physical
ecclesiastical spits
& spats dribs and drabs
scamper like sideways crabs,
those little sand ones,
super-sensitive little critters,
don’t want them in your vestments.
Just thought makes skin creep.
Icky rinse and unction,
gentian blue, geisha socks,
hollyhocks in aspic,
that’s fixed it. spit it out,
like venom or tripe
gloopy pukey cheesy goo:
Yuksville, Ariz.
Clouded folded cream,
silken merangue pelmets,
just a splash of blue between the folds,
a filling food dye. Insuck ouch, it bites that wind, just looking at it savaging a trembling bramble leaf, starching the frozen black tent top and pastel body bags on the line next door.
Lanolin folded cream
Rolled ploughed furrowed
Clouded brow field
Sky blue food dye filling,
one indigo dropped in a sea
of sky goes miles
Insuck ouch
It bites that wind
Just looking at it
Seated by a throbbing rad
Savaging a trembling bramble leaf
Petrifying a bare twig
Starching stiff the black tent top
And fruity pastel bin and body bags
The fat drawers and winding sheets
Creaking next door’s line
Give me a groat and I’ll emote on hope and faith, and craic
Should you not meet me on the way, you can on the way back
From hollow land and silly land, to form and sound, and black
The song you hear will be our own and never will shirk or jack
Too good to be true, too simple to work, you say inside your head
That tapping on the roof you hear, is rhapsody robbing the lead.
The giddy minstrel lived on fruit
Flies, moguls, caprice and hunks
Of Cheese and Bread
She did not give a damn about
What
Anybiddy said
Once munching on an oligarch
She tittered and got silly
Convulsed in laughter and bit off
A portion of his willy
Walter’s mongoose, Leprous, had gone walkabout in Dursley.
Great Aunt Belle was confirmed pescatarian by the authorities.
Harcourt was in bed with the lurgy.
Why did the interesting stuff always happen to other people?
Henry was sanguine after the blood orange baguette.
If things went on like this much longer something interesting was bound to occur. He had been wrong before about the price of fish in Manchuria during the Boxer revolt. That still smarted after all this time.
He liked it.
Ten at night
The pie is dead
Remember The Grapes
Sickly sweat clings
Cold cascades
What is he barking at?
The moon is out
Down The Grapes
With the stars, some hasbeens
And four screaming wannabes
Called The Vermeers
I couldn’t make it:
Artistic differences, you know
Matters of principle
Moral scruples
Skint
Sunday, 22 March 2015
More murky murk
Mufti wades through grey
Morning Match of Day
No overhangs today,
must get scrubbed up,
ready for theatre.
Feeling lucky, mucky, clucky?
Spike the Curate’s eggs.
Wind’s dropped, termite respite;
north-westerly’s will freeze
your bollox off.
No vest for the whack-ed.
Fools down tools
play pooh-sticks in the urinal,
paper boats float upstream
(a blocked drain in Sao Paulo).
What twaddle, what twaddell, St Waddell. Veneration generation…everyone’s gone to the Toon. It could be lamb, it will be sausages, and eggs…eggs…eggs…
Show on road? No…
Isolated blizzard,
hail, frog rain, bubonic plague, GPI,
These and sundry vilenesses
prevent Lifter Finger & Hans Turn
Fulfilling promises of gardening.
A pluperfect spring morning
wasteland of historic neglect
disgrace my spiffing gaze.
The road to oblivion is paved
with claptrap and obliquy.
Nothing comes of nothing
never…
…aside from scrub
scatted Street Legal,
flew solo around
the warm grey upstairs
spreading love
and affection with
my every breath.
I had a pony:
its name was Lucifer…
13:45
A themed sequence of this morning that could have gone to Henry, perhaps it did. At a loss now (Panama on, Ferry singing oldies, eating sausages on the bed, might cook an omelette after three more eggs this morning). Quite an aside – see what I mean, at a loss. Time to chill…change down gear, nice cuppa, cut the caffeine, take my tabs…blah, blah, blah.
Tea. Cuppa tea. Potta tea. Lotta tea. For me. You? oh, tea. Sugar? Three. Three! Milk? Yes, three.
Getting eaten all over the USA. Feeding frenzy et al. Earl Grey & lemon slice, Paul Desmond, cloudless, moonless sunlight streaming, could be dreaming of days like this just last week, in the slough of despond, wallowing in dross. Just for one day…
The blue light was my baby, the red light was my mind…
Grazed the graze of the sheep
Still waters run real deep
Where are they now
That spring is here?
Teetering on brinks
Grabbing forty winks of shot eye
Waddling dogs on unsafe beaches
Keeping warm in sunken rooms
Cuddling up with a bad book
Counting haemorrhoids on loved ones
Beating a glorious retreat into the past
Where the ghosts are much friendlier than they were.
Waiting for Poldark to come back from fishing
Wishing that it could be different as time goes by…
It is best to remember things how they weren’t
Or could have been on days like this
When there is just the slenderest chance
Of departure from the daily terror.
Snap out of it you sad, old bastard
Let the undead bury the undead
After an obese shag and an emergency piss just in case. Bitter & twisted? Titter & Biscuit. I see you laughing at my gormless dotage and join in. Yes, it matters, but not enough to scare the horses or worry the bookies. Life has passed by with you on it.
What tumult pours out.
Worm cans open for the birds.
Earbangs all around!
The sun sets in the east
just for a change. The papers!
Blanked them altogether,
cancelled due to clement weather.
Except for Scotland where
even the fish wear kilts.
I write these words for you, you moo.
Getting tired now, ten to four. Sunday afternoon books & pomes on the radio. There’s exciting! Means moving, surely does…more tea, Vicar?
The Avocado 