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.

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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.

Toad on a Grecian Urn

There’s a toad on my urn

what’s it doing there?

Is it brushing its teeth,

or combing its hair?

 

There’s a toad on my urn,

how’d it get up there?

It had to jump high

up in the air.

 

I got that urn myself,

I stole it from Con.

I have to hide it away,

every time he comes round.

 

He got it from his mother,

before she died.

Don’t worry I checked,

there are no ashes inside.

 

The toad looks pretty fat,

I hope the urn doesn’t break.

If I have to steal another,

I feel sorry for Con’s sake.

 

‘Struth, that’s enough carry on,

that’s all you need to know.

My  urn is a beauty,

The toad only so-so.

Toads may be ugly, but who wants to be lonely.  An urn may be beautiful, but it will never hold you – at best it will only hold your ashes.  Toads on the other hand are always up for a cuddle.

Young Love, with scar

I thought you had a really cool tatt,

until I saw it was a line of sores that

you had been picking at.

I liked the way the blood caked.

I liked the delicacy of where your skin flaked

from last weeks sun burn.

You were this weeks stomach churn,

my latest after hours ache.

At least your hand picked scar would fade.

Useless adolescent longing,

like there was a hole in me big enough

to hold the world,

as though the world was big enough to care about,

knowing that I would never find a way to get it all inside,

that there would always be a part of me that was empty.

At least your hand picked scar would fade

eventually.