the Red Telephone Booth

I was watching the Xmas Special of ‘Call The Midwife’ when the plot ran into a red telephone booth on a remote Scottish island. It reminded me of the red telephone booth I ran into some years ago:

The Red Telephone Booth

No one writes poems about telephone booths anymore

So I thought I would write one,

about the time I drove down

A series of side roads to avoid a booze bus,

when I almost ran into one.

It was so nostalgic.

It was the sort of booth that Clark Kent would dash into

to change into superman.

I opened the door and went inside.

It stank of stale urine and cigarette smoke.

The paintwork was peeling. There were no phone books

Only numbers,

‘if you’re after a good time call …’, that sort of thing

 and anti-gay graffiti.

It looked like

the last telephone booth on the planet before mobile phones

took over.

I closed the door, climbed into my car and drove off,

Heavy as a telephone booth, 

into the arms of the booze bus.

Okay. Well, that didn’t work

800px-A_glass_of_red_wine

I have a very bad feeling.

Tell me I’m wrong.

That I have written myself into obscurity.

That I was too clever by half.

That no one knew what the f*** I was writing about

in the previous post ‘Not a nightingale ode’.

It was a glass of red wine.

But that’s what happens when you put up a post

while you’ve been drinking

while you’ve been rhapsodizing about a glass

of red wine

King

 

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I’m out the back writing, throwing back a cab sav,

The royal purple trumpet flowers bowing before me.

It’s not a big backyard.

But it’s mine.

I can enter my own little world if I want to.

Don’t have to answer stupid questions about my failings.

Fuck that.

There’s a balmy sea breeze blowing

And I’m reading an article by Peter Schjeldahl

Who barfed in the bright green bushes when he came home

From a college party.

The vomit was bright orange, the sky a pastel blue.

He was amazed at the colour. Later he became an art critic.

I wrote a post about barfing in the bushes, the one before this

But hardly anyone read it.

And no, I’m not TRASHING it. It’s good !

I could drink the whole bottle of wine out here

And forget about the bushfires, the bloody bushfires and the threat of war again.

Fuck that too.

It’s good out here. So good.

I’m king in my board shorts and tank top and bare feet

under a crown of blue sky

kicking back the shit

putting it in this poem.

Perhaps I will drink the whole bottle.

Cheers.

 

The Alcoholic Cat

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Hey! Who’s been drinking my wine?

Rosco shrugs his shoulders.

It’s not the first time I’ve noticed the level’s fallen, I say. Do you know anything about this?

I only had a few mouthfuls.

But you’re a cat!

What is this? Can’t a cat be allowed to drink now? The RSPCA would have something to say about that.

Indeed it might but it might not be to your liking.

I thought I had him there.

Well, the top was off.

To let it breathe! Not as an invitation to drink!

Oh.

Drink your own wine, I snap.

I just can’t walk into a bottle shop you know and ask ….

Look, I’ll put a few mouthfuls in your bowl each evening if you must drink.

It’s for medicinal purposes only, you understand and looks up purring with innocence — and hope.

Collateral Damage from Reading

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You tell yrself

You’ve got to stop reading when you’re feeding yr face

That coffee, wine and honey leave stains

On the crisp, pristine pages but then you think, nah !

They’re the stains of life like grease marks

From yr fingers,

The collateral damage from reading;

Rain spots too when magazine’s are left outside,

Creases from the wind speed reading again

As though the story you found a bore was a real page turner;

Sometimes too blood stains from a nose bleed;

Marks like footprints in the sand saying

That someone’s been there

And, yes, had a good time.

 

 

The Red Telephone Booth

phone-booth-2547447_960_720

No one writes poems about telephone booths anymore

So I thought I would write one,

about the time I drove down

A series of side roads to avoid a booze bus,

when I almost ran into one.

It was so nostalgic.

It was the sort of booth that Clark Kent would dash into

to change into superman.

I opened the door and went inside.

It stank of stale urine and cigarette smoke.

The paintwork was peeling. There were no phone books

Only numbers,

‘if you’re after a good time call …’, that sort of thing

and anti-gay graffiti.

It looked like

the last telephone booth on the planet before mobile phones

took over.

I closed the door, climbed into my car and drove off,

Heavy as a telephone booth,

into the arms of the booze bus.

Lop-Sided Moon

wolves

 

The bus shelter at the end of our street grinds its teeth at night.

Sometimes I sit with it, hold its hand, listen to its tale

of drunks and suicides,

of lycanthropes baying at the full moon,

of lonesome Lotharios weeping in their fists

 

I talk to it too about my problems

Of the jig-saw days when pieces don’t fit

Of the times when your heart races

Like a wildebeest on the veldt

But latches onto nothing.

 

After a while we both settle

 

and I head off home

beneath a lopsided moon.

 

 

Two Men Sit at a Bar

 

Two men sit at either end of a bar.

One has a gun in his right hand.

He is nervous, twitchy.

The other is heavy set.

They look at each other.

“What’s your name?” one asks across the space.

“I don’t have one yet. What’s yours?”

“Me neither.”

They sit quietly for a few minutes, sipping their scotch, looking into the shadows, when one turns to the other.

“I wish he’d come soon instead of just planting us here”

“Calls himself a writer”, the other laughs. “He doesn’t know what to do with us. That’s the problem. Still long as the drinks keep coming ….”