Stuff

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?

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Dexter

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.

The Polygamist’s Lament

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.

Loving the alien

Sniff of chlorophyl

whiff of ether

Look down

see fronds part and unfurl

cupping

leafy embrace

cool breeze

tugs you in

sinking the green

moss is velvet

plant yourself

lean in and

skin unfurls to mask you

the perfect kiss

inside out

you are draped

try to make sense

of distant calls

lose yourself in

the wind blowing

through her branches

are you dead

or are you

loving the alien?

***

Earth girls:

don’t care that they’re skinny

don’t care if they are fat

bothered always now

that they’re

meat

***

lost on venus

lost on mars

press up against

foreign atmosphere

do you lose yourself

if you love the alien?

***

RIP Ray Bradbury

new sneakers hitting the pavement

forever now

I hate you radiator

I hate
the way you radiate
energy and power
how you excrete
heat
and make weird noises
on the hour.
Your functionality
does not excuse
your lack of personality.
You are not everything to me
when that is what I demand
of everything.
You do not radiate love, radiator,
nor compassion or understanding.
So like a man
to think you can get away with fulfilling one mission.
I don’t want you to fix everything.
I want you to listen.

***

Disclaimer:  neither I nor the writer are female.  I just have to get that out there.  You can blame all of this on Scott.

The man of her dreams

Sinking

she rose,

spluttering,

a gem in her hand,

a moment from time

usually lost.

Truth snatched

from the reverie,

just before sleep.

As she slipped off

after a day of infinite choices,

selections, ticking boxes,

it came to her:

she liked her men

strong,

sensitive,

soft,

embossed.

Just like her toilet paper.

Armed with knowledge, now she can rest.

Cute Girl at the Indian Take-away

She doesn’t just have eyes for me,

the girl who serves me my Tandoori.

Her quizzical glance and little smile,

is not an exchange of irony,

though I do react,

I cannot resist,

when she swallows me in

with big dark eyes

and the world shrinks down to size,

a planet built for two.

I sip on my mango lassi

while I wait for my curry,

and I watch while she does it again,

one after the other,

with all the men.

At last I comprehend.

She finds us hard to understand,

she speaks English but is not fluent

in Australian.

She stares straight at me

with huge eyes like an owl’s,

trying to comprehend

my flattened vowels.

Totally absorbed,

in the groove,

concentrating on how my lips move.

The tremble of her little duck pout

is just her working out

the words I said

by whispering them again

in her head.

“Tandoori chicken roll

on plain naan.”

“With mint sauce?”

“Of course.”

Smile.  Yearn.

What is it

that is attractive about women who do not

understand me?

Like my wife.

***

This is not about me, or any alleged Mrs Chip.  Its just a story with some bad rhyme.  But the girl is pretty.

“My wife, she doesn’t understand me.”

Perhaps you should speak more clearly.  And brush your teeth occasionally.  It is easier to converse if you can bear to be near someone, and hygiene helps.  Have a bit of a wash before retiring.  And at other times.  It will work wonders.  You think she has let herself go?  Take a look in the mirror, Fatboy Unslim.

“Whaddya mean, the waitress is nice to everyone?”  Wake up to yourself.  You’ve never charmed anyone else.  Its her job.

***

Dear American readers, “take away” is, I believe, equivalent to “take out”, though not, one hopes, in the sense of taking out the garbage (ie trash), or taking out a girl.  You may have had the experience of purchasing food in that Scottish restaurant* you have, to be consumed away from the premises.

Dear Indian readers (hello Dr Sylvia), please do not judge us by the “Tandoori Roll”.  It is quick, healthy and convenient, and we know it is not the height of your great and wonderful cuisine(s).  It is just that sometimes we are rushed at lunch.

Dear Scottish readers, I know it is not really a Scottish restaurant.  I remember best your desserts.  Ubiquitous trifle.  Poached nectarines.  Shortbread.  Rhubarb tart.  Yummmm.  You can’t get any of that at *.

*McDonalds