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
Two drugs for attention deficit disorder
& she takes what I take too.
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
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
I like to read the crazed calligraphy of car tyres
on roads, the angry black swathes of rubber
on bitumen from burn-outs and donuts. What are we
to make of such marks, the road their canvas?
Do we elevate it to ‘outsider art’; Do we call them,
‘hoons’ or ‘street artists’? Do they love the smell
of burnt rubber in the morning as they furiously apply
the high octane brush of machismo? Do they,
I wonder, gloat over their works in the days & weeks
that follow, as if they were pictures hanging on a wall ?
- pic courtesy of pixabay by Jan-Mollander
I was streaking ahead and then she put down that word. It was on a ‘double word’ score.
Hey! That’s NOT a word! I said.
Yes, it is. I was just reading about it in ‘Body and Soul’ [ a supplement in our Sunday newspaper].
And she bent across and showed me.
What does it mean?
It’s something we used to do as schoolgirls, she chuckled. And she told me.
I was flabbergasted. The secret life of schoolgirls, I thought. Wonder of wonders.
Okay, I said. There are 4000 new words in our language each year so why couldn’t that be one of them?
You haven’t got your head up your arse
Or in the clouds any more, he said,
But firmly secured where it should be.
Atop my shoulders? I suggested.
But my big brother was right.
I was a dreamy kid but when the hormones kicked in— boy!!
My head was every which way but loose.
It was like a beach ball bobbing along
On choppy waves,
A dog chasing after every rabbit which crossed
I’m still a bit like that but the hormones
Are quieter now
& if I don’t watch it I still find myself
Head up the arse or in the clouds,
A head’s gotta go somewhere.