We drove to the Buddhist temple
A hot breeze blew in
From the north.
Clouds of insects rose
One, a fly, landed on my nose
And would not
I gave it the good old Aussie salute
A few times
To no avail,
Making me wonder whether
One should swat
A Buddhist fly
Or merely contemplate it?
The Buddha looked on.
You had to fore warn people.
It was not a good look.
Scabs and bruises on the upper lip
Sores on the nose
So you said, “bar room brawl”
Half jokingly, “but you should have seen
The other fellow.”
It was more dramatic, more grunge-romantic
Than humdrum “cold sores.”
You’re my Oxycontin
My Iron Jack
My slug of Scotch
My Gin & Tonic
My second glass of red
My six-pack of beer
My magic board that surfs over anxiety & tedium
Just the thing for a long flight
my paperback of Tim Winton’s ‘Breath’
A good book is like a good fire. You warm to it. It glows for you. When you’re not with it, out in the world, in the cold cross currents of life, you long to get back to it. It is self sustaining like good food or drink. I always like to come home at night and cuddle up with a good book.
‘Zombie’ and ‘Motherlode’, two short stories by Thomas McGuane are what I’m into now. That I’ve read them twice before doesn’t matter. They give off warmth and comfort. ‘TEOTFW’ by Charles Forsman is a short graphic novel that gives out the furious energy of a blazing fire.
Which books have you read that do this?
We sat beneath the green gazebo
Just me, myself and my mate Zero
No chances had come our way
We had nothing much to say
But our hearts were big and bold as Rio
One day, we dreamt, we’d all be heroes
[ apologies to David Bowie ]
There’s something about a cold, starlit night that gets me going: the glitter of the galaxies, the pixie dust of the Milky Way, the motherly eye of the moon, the peace, a full stomach. I drift to the back of the yard past the reach of the kitchen light and stand by the lemon tree — I’m told it’s always good to do it there. My flanks begin to shudder as I unzip and I piss like a stallion, throw my head back and neigh.