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.
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.
the haiku lunges
out of the dark ocean of text
its flanks be-jeweled
by sun, the way
a whale lunges out of the water
in Oban Bay
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.
Well I never, said the cat.
Whoever thought it’d end like that.
I thought I had it all sewn up.
But now my past has tripped me up.
I should have run but alas too late.
“Fifteen years!” banged the magistrate.
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.