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.

How Was It, Chief?

He brings me a muffin.

I asked for a blueberry.

I get choc chip.

I asked for a fork.

He brings me a knife.

You’ve got no idea how rude customers can be, he says to a couple at the next table. You don’t know what you’re doing, mate, they sometimes say. Hey! I’ve got backbone. I bite back: Don’t know what I’m doing??? You don’t know what you’re talking about, I say to them. I’ve been in this trade for ten years.

His face is going red. He starts to inflate like a pufferfish. His words bristle.

The couple cower before their coffee.

So how was it, chief? he asks me in passing.

You don’t know what you’re doing, I feel like saying but my mouth is full of muffin.

Instead I give him the thumbs up. It seems the best policy. I’ve made his day.

Another Altercation with Auto Correct

Parth serves me.

He deals with my query,

sets me up for Unlimited Data.

The next day

is Mother’s Day.

If you want anything to happen,

changes to your laptop,

forget it.

Mothers Day: the Holy of Holies.

but the next day

is all good

BUT

when I message Parth to thank him

auto correct  does not like ‘Parth’

but changes it to

‘Parthenon’ !

What the %#$%^&

He’s not a Greek temple, he’s a person, I say.

And besides he’s Indian NOT Greek

and when I correct it, auto correct

over-rides me.

We come to blows.

I change it back

end with a

‘Have a good one, Parth’ and quickly press ‘send’

but the next day

I get a message

‘Hey John! What is it with ‘Parthenon?

That Little Guy in my Head

Every time I go to post a poem

About my partner or family, or another poet

That little guy inside my head says,

Hey You Can’t Say That! And when I ask,

Why not? He says. Are You Serious?

You Re3ally Don’t Know? But, of course, I do

But you can’t fictionalize everything.

You take away the bite of authenticity.

So I slam the door shut on that censorious little freak

but he shouts out anyway: DELETE! DELETE!

I Do Laps

I go to the pool to work things out

to sort through the stuff of life

& where I have stuffed up.

Sure I do laps

but in between I walk up and down

in the non-swimming area

in a sort of meditative trance

but to day is hard:

Dave’s banging on beside me

about his aural canal

how it’s twisted

a bit like me, he chuckles

and how he can’t get the right fit

of ear plug

and there’s an altercation at the shallow end

when a large woman storms up the steps

and her partner in a fit of frustration

throws his purple noodles in the air

& the supervisor storms in, brandishing his biceps

belligerent with tatts

and there’s another altercation

& then the partner storms up the steps

to the repetitive strains of ‘bullshit, bullshit, bullshit’

& Dave’s still going on about these

special ear plugs you can get made for $150

& all I want is a chance to sort things out

but today’s not the day for it

pic courtesy of Pinterest

Rumble: Flash Fiction

We were holed up under the same roof, two people who couldn’t stand each other. And we had the whole night to spend in the same one bedroom flat. I took the lounge, she took the bed; we didn’t even say goodnight. We were murderous to each other. I could feel the old Minotaur in the labyrinth of my brain, gearing up for a rumble. But there could have been blood. Pray, I say, pray, don’t let her taunt me. I was scared of myself more than her. The Minotaur was raging. Just then the door opened

Hiding behind Metaphors

You’re doing it again, he said.

What?

Hiding behind metaphors.

What do you mean?

‘Claws’, ‘Whales’. ‘Billabongs’. All metaphors. Why don’t you say what you want to say? Get it out in the open.

I’m afraid.

Of what?

Of how ugly it all is. All that anger.

Face it ! Stare it down !

What would it look like?

It would be a different poem. It would bang and bellow. Draw blood. Howl with expletives.

Would anyone read it?

Possibly not. But it would be honest. And it wouldn’t have billabongs in it. Billabongs have to be earned. Not brought in after four lines. Your poem is the most polite poem on anger I’ve ever read.

The Wave and the Whale

My anger lies in me

it claws at my entrails

my anger is huge

heavy as a whale

I let my anger go

wave it along

calm descends, my heart

now a billabong

What the &%%^&*& !

Look, I’m sorry I have to show you this but I deliberately left it blurry so you would not have to confront its ugliness.

No, it’s not a mouse or rat that the cat I haven’t got killed.

It’s an ugly mass of dust particles that we call ‘fluff’ in this neck of the woods.

It’s what the cleaner left in the bedroom wardrobe after I had paid him sixty bucks for doing ‘such a superb job’ [my words]

It was like the shower scene in ‘Psycho’ for me where instead of being confronted with a blade I’m confronted with a rat-sized piece of woolly fluff.

I almost fell backwards and yes I did utter the blanked out word above and I photographed the evidence straight away.

I just had to tell you about it and I feel better already.

Get thee to a rubbish bin, I said, and to its credit, it hopped in the one provided.

The funny thing is, the rest of the house is spick and span. So how did he miss this?!

and btw I’ve just been informed this is my 500th post 🙂

• have you ever had anything like that happen to you?

Colonize

Please don’t try to colonize me.

I’m not unclaimed territory.

I own me.

*pic courtesy of Wikimedia Commons