weathersnap (27/June/18)

it’s hot
far too hot
I’m listening to a frantic piano frantically pianolising seemingly using every key on its keychain to open as many notational doors as possible, some of which I’m sure have were never there before but’ve miraculously appeared at the conjurers fingertips which move faster than the air has here for days now as it hasn’t moved at all, as though being trapped in the trees and webs and tired hair of passers-by and no doubt a beard or two… can you imagined what turbulence could be unleashed with a sweep of a razor blade shaving off the aforementioned facial furniture… I might grow a beard but for not being young anymore I merely look like a vagrant, an unseemly wild man who wandered dazed from some forbidding forest to find myself confronted a velocitous, cacophonic, addled peoplescape of things, things and more things… feeling decidedly mercurial… is this good, or bad?… or just the first word to come to mind, rightly or wrongly, apt or not or perhaps it’s the onomatopoeic qualities it possesses when saying it, in how it’s pronunciation flows like mercury over the lower lip leaving  an aftertaste of near melancholy…… my tea is hot, welcome, my fourth of the morning I think, no third, yes it’s number three, as opposed to number six, which I may stop before then for fear of said number, being the number of, not the beast, the Prisoner whose life surely unravelled in a surrealistic maelstrom… not unlike mine in fact as I keep a wary eye out for oversized balloons…… don’t know what I’m talking about do you?… I know, I can only apologise as is the nature of unravelling in that when it happens it is invariably uncontrollable and become beyond the ken of even the protagonist… my inscape is not a safe place to be, nor one to linger for fear of, well, this very thing happening, where mind and matter meet, animomateriatimor, can never be regarded benignly nor predictably… like a weather seemingly halted in its tracks and held to ransom… by who?… who would do such a thing, weathernappers?….
hardly slept last night
kept waking
like this
stops and starts
for here such temperatures as these are unthinkable, in the 30˚ centigrade… or should that be Celsius?…. how confusing…. in fact the latter with the former having seceded to its finer toothed comb for teasing out even the smallest of nit degrees…… but I’ve gone on longer than I’d planned dear reader, time to not be here………… ………

© 2018 robert greig

this is not a rhyme (12/March/18)

today, today, what will I write about today
maybe nothing much at all
maybe nought at all
I haven’t yet decided
I haven’t thought that much
though probably I’ve thought a lot
probably too much
today, today, how to describe today
to reverse engineer the world and its dog
by reducing it to words
or deducing it to words
to deconstruct this merry mess
presented at my feet
that swirls around, unfurls unbound
its dizzying refrains
and get it down, de-,
in words, -scribe……
though it could be there’s not much to say and waste upon the ink
or maybe there’s just too damn much that aggravates the skin
what do you think?
why I ask I know not why as you can’t answer me,
not yet, not as I write and think and think and write right here and now and by the time you find the time to maybe have a say I’ll be far away in time and space breathing in another place……
today, today, I’ll say it once again
I’ll make excuses
then some tea
then perhaps some food
then I’ll eat and then I’ll make some
coffee and it’s all for me
then I’ll drink it think
a little more about
today, today, today
and if my feet were made of clay would the rest of me be too?

© 2018 robert greig

cock-a-snook (13/Feb/18)

it all began with a goosander sitting on a rock, in a lake, in the dead of winter…
there they sat lumpen, trenchant, stubborn, bullish, those temperamental mountains with their temperamental stares staring down as they do craggy-faced all chisel-featured, chilly creatures stark and white wearing ice like it’s their vice and their “come and have a go if you think you’re hard enough” dares…… I’m not, I wasn’t, so I didn’t… a made of mist cloud grazed and scraped and stole their summits swept them clean of would-be trespassers…… I stared up, as I do, my gaze as hard as my not as craggy features would allow but they just laughed in my face, or would have if mountains laughed which as far as I know for all the anthropomorphic slurry I may throw at them they don’t… as such I cocked-a-snook in their specific direction from inside of the café through the semi-steamy windows jealousy slurping my warming soup, coddling my tea, a mug of, a huge mug of… mine, mine, mine, I thought smugly to myself… earlier a goosander sat on a rock, in a lake, in the dead of winter not one hour since, I took ifs picture, it seemed ambivalent or that was my interpretation… do goosanders display ambivalence?…… I thought I was cold today- whitened fingers, stinging skin-  ambling down the high street of Llanberis trapped among those “come and have a go if you think you’re hard enough” mountains high until I got home and lazily slumped upon my equally lazy sofa where me and aforementioned furniture and watched some Winter Olympics from PyeongChang , now THAT is cold!… I saw Curling… for an hour’ish, it’s what was on… utterly baffling sport….. and after an hour, still baffled…

© 2018 robert greig