Relief after the storm
when rain washes the sky clear
grit and grain
drained away.
Awake to a sense of purity:
tensions resolved, static removed,
humidity vanished.
Walk outside
Bewildered at the streaks,
paint trailing at the bottom of a dome
See as you have never seen,
Darkly, though no longer through a glass.
Who knew the stars
were eyes?
Clustered, staring, unblinking
greedy.
Who knew the sky is a face?
The earth is a mouth,
full of teeth.
(with a nod to Laird Barron)
Reverend Moon
you have died.
Have you opened your eyes?
Did you get a surprise?
Boo!
Something
Something Something
Something
somethingsomethingsomethingsomething
Something Something Something
Something
(please not nothing)
Something Something
somethingsomethingsomethingsomething
(please)
Something Something
Something.
Something Something Something
Please.
OK?
There’s all ladies now
whose legs are made of rubber
Now I’m respectful of women
(even I had a mother)
But I need to know
are they rubber all through
or like Astroboy
are their legs a hollow tube?
I can’t wear those pants
they’d look silly on me,
so I’m the only one not walking round
pneumatically.
Rubber legged ladies
bouncing round glorious
Soon they’ll be running
like Oscar Pistorius.
***
I don’t think those pants are really rubber, but I’m not going to touch them to find out, thats how trouble starts. Joe Chip, always with the big issues.
Hey ugly fat old man
what do you think you are doing
just standing there staring at me like that
with your face covered in shaving cream?
What happened to that young guy
you people used to have
on the other side of the mirror?
Did he get bored hanging around?
Went looking for somewhere more interesting
to hang out?
You may as well stick around,
I suppose.
I hate to think who they might send
to replace you,
if you were to go.
You’ve got his nose, you know.
You two related?
How come you got so many ugly people
over there?
***
Pathetique. Its less pathetic, when its in French.
If I was ten years younger
I might make a fool of myself
so I am glad that I am not.
I smile
and suck it in.
Why would I think
things would be any different
to how they were
ten years ago?
If I was ten years younger.
Except, like, for facebook and stuff.
***
I found a shoe
by the side of the road
There was no foot in it.
Not this time.
***
Tell me.
What I want to know,
is where
do the dead women go?
Dexter
You married your sister
No wonder it ended in divorce
Dexter
You murdered your brother
and never showed any remorse.
You used to be a gay undertaker,
now you are a dead body maker.
Michael C
what next will you do?
Named for a passage way
because you’re just passing through
the characters you inhabit.
Stay away from Richard Kelly,
he’ll make you play a psycho rabbit.
Dexter,
You talk to your dead father.
I hadn’t thought about how weird your show is until just now.
***
“This drivel shows nothing but contempt for the reader. Why are you taking this class if you are going to submit such rubbish? This is not even a first draft. You think the conceit of confusing the actor and the character is amusing, but its tired, and your attempt is half arsed. The ending would be a let down, if there was anything to come down from. And what’s with the Donnie Darko crap suddenly popping up? Worthless, both you and the so-called poem.”
Sorry Mum. I know, she wasn’t his real sister any way. But Harry is supposed to be his real father.
I thought she was albino
’til I saw that her eyes were blue
I was gonna keep on going
just walk on through
you might think that was kind of rude
but she looked like she had bad attitude
***
Cute girl with the see through skin
I thought that she was
Albinan-ian
Cute girl with the veins that show through
What has nature done to you?
***
She replied:
Nature didn’t do this
It began with the
wrong boy’s kiss
Disease over which
love holds sway
Bad boy sucked all my colour away
***
Cute girl with the see through skin
I thought that she was
Albinan-ian
Cute girl with the veins that show through
What has that bad boy done to you?
***
I thought she was albino
’til I saw that her eyes were blue
She kept on going
just walked on through
you might think that was kind of rude
She repaid me for my bad attitude
***
Cute girl with the see through skin
I thought that she was
Albinan-ian
Cute girl with organs that show through
How can I ever forget you?
***
***
Gentle readers, you should hear me when I sing this. Perhaps it is better that you don’t. And yes, I am fully aware that while an albino person may come from Albania, that that is mere coincidence. Remember, I have been issued with a poetic licence. Perhaps a commentary on a certain type of singer, perhaps just stupidity. Perhaps a cautionary tale for Twilight readers? Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps. (And as I type this on a fine winter’s afternoon, I am rewarded for writing about colour with the eerie wail of a yellow tailed black cockatoo.)
Will you be my third wife,
and save me from the lonely life
that only a husband
of two wives
can know?
…
Three
is the loneliest number
its one too many
to rhumba
My sister wives
spend all their time
together
I wander lonely as a raincloud
in a spate of good weather
I don’t want to be a heel
but I can’t live as the third wheel
unless there is a fourth
I’ll have to consider divorce
so please save me from taking
that unnatural course.
I am glad they get on
so well
those two
But what the hell
do they get up to
all the time
leaving me to attempt
to lament
in rhyme?
…
It was really big of me
to consider polygamy
it flatters a girl to think
she might be number three
but it just cannot be:
It isn’t me
It isn’t you
its just
I don’t like the other two.
…
Fair enough.
Do you have a sister?
……….
Who says true art takes time? Its like true love – it just pops out. “A spate of good weather” – William McGonagall, eat your dead heart out.
Having been inspired to great artistic heights by Mormons and Scientologists, I was going to pick on Jehovah’s Witnesses next. In my old house they used to visit me and resist my attempts to convert them to something else on a regular basis. I have been in my new house a year and they have not visited at all. I suspect this is because there is a big hill you have to climb up to get to me (yes, cos I spend my time meditating on top of a mountain), and the local Witnesses round here might be a bit lazy. So my poem was going to have lines like
Hey Jehovah
why don’t your witnesses like to climb over
the hill and visit any more
I never seem them
they don’t call
they don’t tuck the WatchTower
under my door
And then there was going to be something about how I hope that he is a vengeful god, because his Witnesses were ignoring me.
Then I came home the other day and the alleged Mrs Chip, if there should be such a person (I don’t think there is for this persona), had placed The Watch Tower and Awake on my desk. Bugger! They had been! That spoiled everything. Curses! Foiled again! I am struck into appropriate politeness, and it is for the best.
I like the monster Jehovah’s Witness in Ghost Story by Peter Straub. The bit about Dr Rabbitfoot. He was scary.
I hope none of this sounds rude, I have to write about something. (Or do I?)
Poetry and Paranoia 