Something in the Air

I don’t like the look of them

these runaways

the way they huddle darkly

in alleys,

in vacant lots amongst

the runtish grass

with their hangdog faces

and surly looks

they’re up to something

but if you edge closer to eavesdrop

they clam up

look at you with bloodshot

insolent eyes

what have they been drinking

smoking?

perhaps they are planning

a revolution

against their colonial masters

the supermarkets.

My Bad-Ass Phone Call

 
Maybe I shouldn’t have made it but

the fish was under-cooked.

That apprentice! D said. I’ll haul him

over the coals.

have his guts for garters.

He’s overstepped the mark this time.

Don’t go too hard on him, I say.

He has a good heart.

A good heart doesn’t cut it in this

business, he said,

I’ll flay him alive.

It won’t happen again.

The next lot is on me.

And he hung up.

I know he was playing it up a bit.

Still, it would be good to see Jarrod

at the grill next week

in one piece.
 
 
 

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

Last Night was Brutal

Last night was brutal.

We fought like Godzilla vs Kong.

Boxers slugging it out in the ring.

Cage fighters gouging and kicking.

Oooops. Is that an eyeball in my hand?

We were earnest. Furious.

Mean as gorillas. Cut-throat as pirates.

In the end we smoked the peacepipe.

What was that all about? she asked..

I don’t know, I said.

Look, next time, can we please agree what we’re fighting about?

  • pic courtesy of maxsportstz.blogspot.com

I Am Not Chernobyl

I am not Chernobyl.

Not Three Mile Island.

I am not about to have a meltdown.

That steam coming out of my ears? That?

Just me letting some of the pressure out.

That growl?

Don’t worry. It’s worse than its bite.

That string of expletives I’m about to utter?

Just my inner Tourette’s airing its dirty laundry.

. A meltdowm? Nah. Now what is it you’ve been trying to tell me?

*pic courtesy of Pinterest

Slasher

I’m jealous of the scratching post.

Whenever she comes inside, cranky from some failed endeavour or an altercation with the crows and attacks the scratching post with feline ferocity like the slasher to the shower curtain in ‘Pyscho’, I’m envious.

It sure beats walloping the wall and pummeling the pillow when things get fractious or ululating expletives to the night sky.

Is it too much to ask: a scratching post for Xmas? Man-sized , of course.

How Could I Not?

I put up a post the other minute that I knew might offend people but I wanted to honour the veracity of the experience. Would it be more acceptable if the man was the one shouting, and he was the bear of the title rather than his female partner? She did unleash a scatological attack upon the poor guy. What he had done was unclear; more likely it was what he hadn’t done. The title of the piece was unavoidable, though might have been more acceptable were it the man hurling abuse.

It was what happened. Security was called. I overheard the remark, ‘woman screaming in the mall’. It was quite an event. It stopped everyone in their tracks. I could bend over backwards to sugar-coat the experience or ignore it but I’m a writer. How could I not respond to it?

The Last of the Romantics

This time he’s really shitted off.

Had a turd of a day

and now he’s come home to find

dog poo AGAIN

on his freshly mown lawn.

His fury diarrhoeas out

of his mouth, and here we draw the veil of decorum

over the expletives to protect our readers.

A little calmer now he pulls out his pen,

the ballpoint

he uses to write romantic missives to his love

and pens

a warning. on the nearest stobie poll,

a friendly warning

but its double-barrelled exclamation marks cannot hide his intent.

He grabs

a can of beer, and plonks himself near the front window,

watching, watching.