See Ya !

I hope old Schooner’s all right.

He looked a little cranky last time.

He knew something was coming down the pike.

Birds know. They have a crystal ball.

They foresee earthquakes, tsunamis.

He must have foreseen the sale of the pub

& the old drive-thru that housed his Taj Mahal

of a cage where he held court. Customers

would stop by for a chat  and when they were done

he would rasp in his Tom Waits  voice, See Ya!

I liked his magisterial presence. I hope he’s okay

 wherever he is. Each Friday at the pub I raise a glass

To old Schooner. Here’s to you! I say. Stay cocky, dude.

See Ya!

the Eight Minute Orgasm

My heart somersaulted

when you lightning-bolted

into my brain

a jolt

of pure energy

the frenzy

the eight-minute 40 second orgasm

of ‘Purple Rain’

Meatloaf: a Mash-up

When I was a horny teen, I sometimes dreamt of finding

paradise by the dashboard lights, but dad wouldn’t let me

have his car so that was that; my big brother who was into

philosophy, said, don’t worry, buddy, heaven can wait;

you don’t know what you’re talking about, I snapped.

I found a gal and we went for it. like bats out of hell.

I didn’t have a big motorcycle, or a belting voice

but I found a gal I hit it off with , so I said to my brother,

hey man, two out of three ain’t bad

*pic courtesy of Wikipedia

Hocus-Pocus

It is the birthing time of morning

when the hocus-pocus starts:

the cackling of the kookaburras

over the latest joke,

the sardonic salut of the crows

from the peppercorn tree,

the slap of ‘The Sunday Mail’

on the driveway,

and that text from next door:

‘Hey! You awake? Like to come and visit?

Be my Sunday Male’ 🙂

Flight

He climbs the flight

of stairs

as if he’s playing in

the Aussie Open;

with each step taken

he fist pumps the air;

at the top

his face glows with triumph

• pic courtesy of Wikipedia

Is It Any Wonder ?

Have you got ants in yr pants? Mum would say

When I fidgeted in bed.

Once the dentist slapped me in the face

When I wouldn’t keep still

During an extraction.

My mind would wander like Wordsworth

When I was a kid.

You’d forget yr head if it wasn’t screwed on

Was a comment

That followed me like a shadow.

You’ve always got yr head in the clouds,

Barked Brother Angus

From his pulpit

During Ancient History lessons.

Well, it’s better than having it stuck up my arse,

I wanted to say.

And now my grand-daughter has been diagnosed with ADHD.

Is it any wonder?.

She Knows How to Make You Feel small

She knows how to make you feel small

loudly with-holding favours

she bestows on all

She makes you wait till the very last minute

then tends to you

but there’s not much love in it

She doesn’t brook criticism, praise

& rejects the crawl

she’ll squash you like a snail you’re so small

Her kind multiplies in prisons, offices,

re-education camps

to some she’s a monster, others a champ

pic ourtesy of Pinterest by behanc.net

I Never Heard it Coming

We’d just got back from the beach.
I pulled out a book, she put on a CD.
Peaceful, floaty music.
Music to paddle-board to.
But then it changed.
The tempo picked up, the violinists
Played furiously
Like The Two Cellos playing AC/DC.
It was ‘Winter’ by Vivaldi.
I thought, what’s there to get worked up about
With Winter?
Spring, yes, but Winter?
Sluggish, soporific Winter.
But those violins were working up a storm.
You do get storms in winter —gusts, gales, blizzards.
I wanted to get up and fight someone.
Bloody Vivaldi.
All I wanted was Peace. And I got Fury.
You just can’t trust classical music

*pic by Pinterest

You Can’t All Be In It

 
You can’t all be in it, I say.

It’s not like a clown’s car. See how many you can cram in.

It’s a poem.

But they don’t listen.

A simple poem about a change in weather and everybody wants a part:

the tawny frogmouth clacking in the crotch of the peppercorn tree,

the palm fronds all a fluster, the shed door banging like castanets,

the Scrabble tiles flying off the board, all peeved,

the sky itself wearing its overcoat, grey and squally —

it’s rather proud of that;

no, no, no I say,

as I drive off, everyone hanging on for dear life
 

That Man Looks Like You

That man looks like you, she says, as we pull up near a block of shops.

So he does, I say, having a good squiz.

Only he’s got more hair, she smiles, and less of a paunch.

Go easy, I say.

And look he’s going into the same shop you plan to go into.

Saves me going in, I chuckle. Hope he buys what I want to buy.

Only a minute passes and he comes out carrying a shopping bag.

Let’s see where he lives, she says. Could be fun.

So we follow his car down Pridham and Plymouth past the long Covid Testing queues.

Hello, I say, he’s pulled up outside your place. And he’s marching to the front door. Like he owns the place.

Saves you coming in, she says.

So I let her out and drive away in my little blue Subaru, scratching my cerebrals.