Collateral Damage from Reading

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You tell yrself

You’ve got to stop reading when you’re feeding yr face

That coffee, wine and honey leave stains

On the crisp, pristine pages but then you think, nah !

They’re the stains of life like grease marks

From yr fingers,

The collateral damage from reading;

Rain spots too when magazine’s are left outside,

Creases from the wind speed reading again

As though the story you found a bore was a real page turner;

Sometimes too blood stains from a nose bleed;

Marks like footprints in the sand saying

That someone’s been there

And, yes, had a good time.

 

 

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You Could Tell

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They weren’t exactly holding hands.

Nor did one slip his arm around the shoulder

Of the other

Or sneakily down her front

But you could tell they were in love

The way he puffed his plump chest out

The way she looked serenely into the drizzle

As she nestled into him

Those two pigeons on the clothes’ line

During a summer shower.

 

An Optimistic Place

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It’s in an optimistic place.

You can tell by the smiley face.

But multiplied some twenty times?

Such duplication seems a crime.

“It’s over the top. Visual excess.

One of you is enough”, my son-in-law says.

Pink Hippo

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You open your mouth. A pink hippo comes out. You scratch your ear, a purple gorilla. You blow your nose, a polka dot egret. You pass wind, an emerald marmoset. You wonder what will come next. You go to the toilet. You piss piranhas. Defecate falcons. Can I have some more you ask the anaesthetist but the anaesthetist has gone, the effects wearing off just as an oleaginous eel slithers from the long wound in your leg from which the surgeon removed veins for your blocked arteries.