Today I have the mark of the beast upon me.
It came up overnight,
It cannot be hidden except by a mask
But when I take it off, to eat, to explain a matter,
to simply breather easier, friends,
people recoil at the angry red rash
that runs from the tip of my nose to upper lip,
like birds before a predator.
I cannot shave so look doubly abhorrent.
I am only grateful for covid where a face mask
can be worn without question.
It is my close companion, my Linus blanket.
You look like a newt
in yr birthday suit
she said with clear élan.
A little blemished.
Somewhat unfinished.
A strange fit of a man.
I’ve read yr text.
I know what’s next
& up the stairs she ran
the sky
has gone
Goth;
dyed its hair
inky black;
the dark clouds squinch
like too tight jeans
letting
no light
through;
a Greek chorus of crows
caw
from the bare boughs;
thunder
mumbles
like Nick Cave’s intro
to Red Right Hand
Don’t be in a hurry, the buds tell me.
Open when you’re ready.
What does it matter if others blossom
before you?
Remember the gulls
how they fly in loose formation over the sea
at sunset,
how there’d always be some bringing up the rear,
the stragglers.
It’s not a race as our Prime Minister said.
They get there in their own sweet time.
Like my teachers said of me, you may be slow, John,
but you get there in the end,
It’s okay to be a straggler.
Snip
Snip
Snip
Like scissors
Snipping hair
Your
Swift
Little beaks
Snip bugs
From the air
What is the cat looking for under the gate?
Perhaps the old tom two doors down trudging across the road like a sloppy sentence.
Perhaps the purr that left her mysteriously six months ago.
Or maybe she’s dreaming of the Krazy Kat cartoons she loved read to her as a kitten.
Or what the rest of her siblings are up to at the Pet Barn and whether they landed on her feet like her when she was adopted.
Or maybe she’s just curious. She’s a cat after all.
Oooops. Looks like I turned the heater off prematurely.
I seem to make a habit of it.
Maybe because I was born prematurely.
I don’t finish novels either.
or most short stories.
Even half my poems I bail out from.
Relationships too.
I have meltdowns. Walkouts.
But hey ! I have three kids.
Nothing premature there.
And I’m still with my gal.
Maybe I can finally say, I’m over it.
But that might be a little premature.
There’s a miniature submarine lurking
at the bottom of the aquarium .
It is smooth and black with feathery gills .
It is an axolotyly .
We call him Axle , of course .
Most of the time he just hangs around
amongst the water weeds .
Perhaps he’s lonely and depressed .
But every now and then
he rouses himself
and cruises around as if on patrol .
The other fish give him right of way .
Perhaps he thinks he really is a submarine
on an important mission ,
keeping the waters safe for democracy ,
for instance .
Sometimes when he cruises past the sides
of the tank
I give him the thumbs up .
It seems to give him a lift .
I’m on my own again.
My partner’s hit the sack.
The cat’s snuggled up in her basket.
Tiffany’s asleep in the tank, light out.
Even the mozzies have called it a day..
There’s nothing on TV.
Perhaps someone will text. Someone …
Is this what it’s going to be like?
John Malone 