Freakishly Thin

I didn’t know how freakishly thin he was till
I saw the photo in ‘Far Out’ magazine
of the young Nick
Cave
.
What a head of hair, a squall of black,
lean and loose-limbed, hardly anything of him,
but a chiselled face staring knowingly and determinedly into the future.
He knew what he wanted.
He had the bridled brawn to do it.
I have always admired thinness. the Nick
Cave
kind
not the thinness of the heroin addicts
I’d see in the backstreets
of the city
nor the thinness of the wan weakling
I saw in the fish ‘n’ chip shop
whom a mere breeze could bowl over
but a macho sort of thinness
that seems to have passed me by.

* pic courtesy of Pinterest
 

The Difference Between

I was talking to our Hobbo the other day about scratching posts and whether his black Labrador, Dauphy had one and Hobbo retorted, no, but he has a snoring spot.

And I thought: that’s the difference between cats and dogs. Cats have scratching posts, dogs don’t. It seems a little discriminatory.

Cats can work off their frustrations on a post. What’s a dog supposed to do? Max, my granddaughter’s dog, had the answer. Whenever he got frustrated, he would hump his mattress. Not an edifying sight, but it worked for Max.

He was placid as a puddle after that.

Maybe that’s the answer for human beans too. Instead of walloping walls,  pummeling pillows or brawling with our besties, we could simply hump our mattress. Or find a snoring spot.

The Forest

I like them too.

I thought I was a basket case

But there’s this thirteen year old

I read about

Who takes anti-depressants

Anti-psychotic drugs,

Two drugs for attention deficit disorder

& she takes what I take too.

Christ,

I know growing up is tough

But I didn’t know it could be

Tough as this.

I could take other drugs,

Ones that she takes

But the doc reckons I’ve got this far

Without them

I can go the rest of the way.

I just hope that little thirteen year old kid

Makes it out of the forest okay.

*photo courtesy of Ulle

Black Licorice

It’s not my kryptonite

my Achilles’ Heel

but I know a man

who would rather risk

a heart attack

than give up black licorice

black licorice

& bechamel sauce

not together

but strips of licorice

& béchamel sauce on flathead,

flounder & blue grenadier.

Why black? I ask. Is it a racial thing?

No, he says. It’s sweeter,

has more of a kick.

But can you kick the habit, I ask.

No, he says. And if I tell the doctor,

he’ll tear strips off me.

Wine, I can understand. Coffee.

Mrs. Kipling’s Salted Caramel Slices

but black licorice?!

How do people end up with such strange addictions?

Transcendental Soap

I wash myself with transcendental soap,

it makes me shine, lathers my hope,

rinses away all my petty needs,

you know the ones: the urge to pee,

to have three square meals, to sleep

it lifts me high, takes me deep

whenever I feel that I’m on the ropes

I wash myself with transcendental soap

Descent into the Maelstrom

Your addiction

whirlpools you

to

t

h

e

 

 

bottom

 

* sketch by Harry Clarke to Poe’s classic tale