Friday, August 17, 2012

Jim Ded In Grub Street




sulphurious veneriated and
redshare irony appealed
to the anal hack
trudging again down
Grub Street
beck and fleet
to the page's overflung
and hobbled wrought
what wrung out junks
are lingering the harbor
today he thought
some still teary with
the fight of its incline
dromos, the Sisyphus stone
is the omphalos mobil'd

again sulphurious veneriated
and redshare irony, arceniall
to deign the clue and his shoe
holes down to wooden cleats
the feat of any original bridge
to join where the living masses
spend, and he spit as he spoke it,
sp'end, and surely the domain
of the endless chasm of night
to depart by candlelight in a balloon
whose thought left all calibration
aside, the theatre whose run rod
body lifted the air to a carbuncle's
peace would fit out any grabbing
surely, here, here in Grub Street,
the shooting gallery, and the target
sign, to will, he signed, and resignedly
fumbled forth, shot with chagrin
and the charging bull of its listless feign

stain the burn to the eye
and dry out the bosom
to its wretches
and the smallish
cloud worm hold still
to the window in the mill
where the churning
of the grain is flowing

buttle it skort
and there was his friend
Jim Ded look pert in rags
and with leaves pinned to his cheeks
girl head crossed out with lickerish punts
say Jim howse biz
he took out a brown pot
writing down into the interior
and there at the bottom was a sea urchin
he'd stained pink with powder
and put a glass eye in its bung hole
THERE scowled Jim
ITS DED I chuckled at it
him her the spiny raft its seeing bell
well how about a cuppa, I crooned
he discretely set down his monster
and followed

of all the dry gulches Jim spent
I know I looked
well then and then Gulls traipses
wheres they traipses
and we bend in

I wuz looking down across the river
at a tire and Jim looked dead
there was a spider peering from
behind his ear where he hadn't washed
but suddenly a clang
and down at the far end of the distant darks
where the ships shunted bunts and billies
a huge BANG
and a pink rowing smoke went clavilly
Jim pulled out his pukebutch and scratcher
and went to the whey creeding out the curds
like patsy haul your tongue to the governour
and still another bright tang dull of clobber
bounded out and a thick stroke of lightning
licked some drab monolith

wrong genre i mentioned

Jim rubbed spit
on his dirty nipples