Crack/ Unfiltered

I pull aside the curtain

the hallucinogenic dawn rushes in

a sporidium of colours splatter

against the Winnipeg Fog wall

a bacchanal, a squall

like the hormonal hysterics

of ‘The Notebook’.

• pic courtesy of pinterest

Coffee Shop: Quartet

Coffee Shop Quartet.

that quartet of oldies, cosseted in their cardigans,

smugly commiserating the homeless

and Wheatus raps rancidly over the radio

‘I’m just a teenage dirt-bag, baby’

Billy Collins on my screen reading his poem

about Goya’s chandelier hat

lighting up the gloom of his garret

and the fusspot next to me

picking at the frosted icing on his fruitcake

as though it were a scab

* pic courtesy of pinterest

Quilt

Quilt.

Lynne is weaving a quilt

based on a pattern

in the happy cancer ward.

Do you ever deviate from it?

The pattern? I ask.

Rarely, she says.

If I do things can go horribly wrong

but sometimes, she says with a tinkle

in her voice,

they can go wondrously right.

• pic courtesy of pinterest

Creature

Creature.

That stain

on the sidewalk

something Neanderthal

like a creature

on a cave painting

At the Blood Clinic

We are sitting across from each other

trying not to stare

looking down at our phones.

There are some paintings on the wall

but no one is looking at them.

Perhaps they are the sort of paintings

that are not meant to be looked at

but are there to establish a presence,

maintain a mood.

Then I notice the paintings,

half figurative, half abstract

in faded denim blue

with black, springy squiggles

like a cat’s whiskers

are not signed.

Perhaps the painter was half abstracted

when he painted them

& simply forgot.

My Life as a Pencil

I have always wanted to work in a pencil factory

like Henry David Thoreau.

I could draw inspiration from my work each day,

pencil in appointments with imaginary friends

during coffee breaks or smokos.

Do they still have smokos by the way?

‘The pen is mightier than the sword’ but what about

the pencil? & which one?

2B or not 2B? Hamlet famously dithered just after

he had asked Ophelia [ in an earlier draft of the play ]

to come and look at his etchings and she had refused.

I may not be the sharpest pencil in the box but I still

want to make my mark upon the world.

Picture This

Do you recognize this picture? Do you know what book it;s from?

This guy loved this book as a kid and now loves it again as a dad reading it to his kids.

He loved it so much he decorated his van with illustrations from this classic.

A sign company at Aldinga did it for cost. His van is a mobile advert for the company.

Picture this.

If you had the money and desire what picture book would you illustrate your vehicle with?

Like Gustav

Which one is he, I say of the quartet by the river. Which one is Klimt?

Oh, he’s the one with the kaftan. He always wore one in public.

And I think, maybe that’s the answer, maybe if I wore a kaftan

everywhere I go people might take more notice, might say,

o, that’s the famous poet, he has a new book coming out.

And I could promenade along the jetty, frequent the famous kiosk

where all the trendy people go; and maybe go the full monty like Gustav

beneath his kaftan painting in his studio so he’d feel less constricted;

maybe that’d do the trick, maybe that’d free my poetry up

Certificate

I’m hunting for my birth certificate

once again

to prove that I exist.

They seem to need convincing.

Isn’t it obvious? I ask

but obviously it isn’t.

They need that slip of paper.

In fact they insist upon it.

Doubting Thomases! I think

almost inviting them to touch me.

But I hold back

almost afraid to touch myself.

What if ….?

Perhaps I’ve gone around kidding myself

all these years.

Yes, I think, that slip of paper would help.

I hunt for it furiously.

If only to convince myself.

Caravaggio's 'The Incredulity of St, Thomas' courtesy of Wikipedia

She Needs Cheering Up

I need cheering up, she says. I work better when happy.

A shared laugh would help, she adds.

So it’s down to me. What am I? A stand-up?

I can’t think of anything funny to say.

It’s a lovely sunny morning in spite of the forecast

so that’s something to be happy about

but happy isn’t funny.

I riffle through my corny joke book but she’s heard them all

even the good ones, like what do you call an Igloo without a toilet?

An Ig !

I thought that was pretty good but all it elicited was a groan.

And anyway, how necessary is it to be happy when you’re working?

Take art. Some of the best paintings were birthed in rage and fear.

Think ‘The Scream’ by Munch, Picasso’s ‘Guernica’ or Bacon’s ‘The Screaming Pope’.

You don’t read ‘In Memoriam’ for a good laugh or listen to ‘Love Will Tear Us Apart’ for a bit of a lift.

These did not come from a happy place.

Sure, being in a happy place helps, but you’re not going to get the dark matter, the weight if you’re buoyant as a balloon.  

pic by John Currin on Pinterest