Tuesday, 26 September 2017

that time of the year, 26/Sept/17

cometh the student… the return of the student… the student has landed… tinker, tailor, soldier, student… the student who came in from the cold… a clockwork student!... apocalypse student!!.... slapped wrist for misappropriating the exclamation mark…. all obscure (or not, depending on what you know and don’t) literary and movie references pointlessly rendered by moi by some not-very cunning placing of the word ‘student’ to mark this time of the year again… along with skeins of geese, startlings of starlings, wind of course lots of wind and woodpigeons at it again as like us, and no doubt students,  can and do fornicate anytime, anywhere…..

me thinks students grow on trees and like leaves fall in autumn becoming strewn across these streets as this is precisely when they all appears out of thin air and parents cars with wide-eyed wonder looking forward to drinking themselves oblivious during upcoming Freshers Week followed by a future shackled by student loan debt….. coming into land kicking and screaming as universitys and colleges groan and grind back to life afters summer’s been chewed up, gulped down, digested and excreted in the shape of…. autumn!...... careful with that exclamation, Eugene (re: another potentially obscure reference)…..

once upon a haunted past I was one of these greenhorns, newbies, lost souls, elsewhere in another somewhere in another time (in another life), fresh as milk freshly warm from the udder….. I’ve been back a couple of times since for this, that or the other but nothing measures up to those first baby-steps, or leap into the abyss, when anything seemed possible…… only too soon becoming evident it was anything but….. ho hum…. deluded daze of innocence til all the bubbles one by one were well and truly burst………

well, hush my cynical mouth! (deserved exclamation point)…. I should just climb back in my box.

© robert greig 2017

Monday, 25 September 2017

unsaid, 25/Sept/17



dead air fills the dead light and all the dead spaces in between. . . . dead eyes inhabit here and wander listless, gazes vacant stares with dead eyes long since buried in the ground. . . . dead thoughts drain away, frayed and worn by weathered protestations, scored and scoured, bruised and soured. . . . dead hair lank, silver-grey regrets streaming from the scalps, such riverbeds have not seen rain for days or weeks or months or years. . . . dead souls bleeding into shadows excoriating, a featureless becoming, leaching, bleaching. . . . dead sound strangling and stifling, suffocating skin that cannot breathe. . . . dead life hanging by a sinew, tendons stretched to snapping point bloated with a blood that ceased to flow, congealed, blackened, night falls and forgets to get back up again. . . . dead words uncomposed, trapped inside a corpse, decomposed, perched upon the dead lips on the dead tongue, closer now, lean in close, they’re whispering what will remain unsaid.

© robert greig 2017


Sunday, 24 September 2017

the not-a-mouse, 24/Sept/17

a mouse!
no, a vole!
a vole?!
yes, not a mouse a vole!
a vole!... in the house... and a bank vole at that....
surely if it's in a house it should be a mouse... a mouse in the house, that's how it should be and not a vole in the house for a vole in the house just cannot scan, compute nor tidy sit as tidily in verse so you must be mistaken... for a vole it should be a hole and not a house which is for the mouse....
a mouse in the house...
a vole in the hole...
see?....
and a bank vole at that, I hear you say.... if not then in a hole then should be in a bank and this is not a bank, 'tis a house... a bank vole should be counting money holed in in a safe not abroad to run-amok and mayhem here in this house, this surely sir your poetry has wend a bit astray.......
but surely, and I parry you with your very chosen words, this is not so much the poetry but more the much the vole... in the house!
a vole you say and not a mouse you say...
so...
'twas not-a-mouse in a house then thus was a vole instead, a vole in not-a-hole but a house but not a mouse....
however.....
not any more you say nor vole nor not-a-mouse in the house you say as you have caught it, captured, snagged and snared it, stopped it in its not-a-mouse track.... with a yogurt pot, empty I trust, and shiny card  slipped dexterously beneath then lifted also dexterously and released alive and well if not a little shaken by its big adventure, this not-a-mouse in strangers house and no less than a giant on his not-a-mouse heels, all four!....... this all is well that ends well as house and vole or not-a-mouse have gone their separate ways and he has gone to seek a more appropriately rhyming hole to add it to his memoirs for his tiny not-a-mouses to read about one day.


© robert greig 2017