I am watching a man dying on a jet plane
and I am contemplating eating another slice
of cheesecake.
I don’t know yet if the man dies
from clogged arteries, but he looks well fed
up there in real life and is a senior like me.
Now they rip off his shirt and work on his chest
pale and spotted as this cheesecake
I am lifting to my lips as Logan Roy
is pronounced dead.
They look more like gizmos than birds,
cartoonish cut-outs that flock outside
the house that time has marauded,
freaking out the orange tabby next door;
one gives me a mean-dog look
as I snap him with my camera:
you sneery snake perve, it says ;
‘bin chickens’, ‘dumpster divers’,
they look more like street people
scraggling for scraps than Sacred Ibis
Unstable Cliffs, the sign reads. Stay Clear.
And I think of the unstable Cliffs I have known:
The deputy that has a meltdown whenever I call in sick:
my cousin’s boyfriend who punches holes in the wall
when he is denied,
and the glue-sniffing Cliff I taught in Year 11 who fell asleep
on the tracks coming home from a party and was run over by a train.
They should have come with warnings too.
Slavering..
Snivelling.
Sneaky.
Three naked men in a cage
in an Edward Steed sketch,
the Jonathan Swift of cartoonists.
Husbands for girls to choose from.
Hobson’s Choice.
pic courtesy of Pinterest by Edward Steed from The New Yorker
I don’t want to watch the elephants being killed
nor stare at Jason Statham’s bloodied bare knuckles on the side of the passing bus
nor listen to the bickering of the lampposts at night
the snarling of stars as their lights flash on/off like strobes
and my brain’s flickering: I’m woozy as a drink after last drunks
I’ve had it up to here, said the ventriloquist in my pocket
and why did the dish run away with the spoon, anyway?
I’m at a loss for words, says the eviscerated dictionary
and I’m at a loss for what to say next
except after the meltdowns on Mother’s Day
I don’t want to watch the elephants being killed
or see the promo of ‘The Wrath of Man’ with Jason Statham’s bloodied bare knuckles on the side of the bus
You inherit another day.
So what are you going to do with it?
Melancholize ?
Rhapsodize ?
What?
Sift through it for cigarette butts?
Scrambled messages on billboards?
What you gunna do?
Rehearse it like a song you’re going to record?
Look it straight in the eye?
Shoulder your way through it like an NRL star?
Squeeze the juice right out of it?
Hitch a ride on it?
Or lean against it like a lamp post and watch it amble by?
You inherit another day.
So what you gunna do?
He’s just heard the news. He slumps, decides to act breezily.
“I am getting a half -Van Gogh,” he says over the phone.
“A half -Van Gogh? What is that?”
“You know how Van Gogh lopped off his left ear after a fit of madness, or so it’s claimed?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I’m getting half my left ear, the lobe lopped off.”
Silence.
“Why? Why would you do that?”
“It’s cancerous.”
“Oh dear.”
“You said you would love me even if I had half my face missing.”
“I know but …”
“Hello. Hello…”
Dial tone.
*photo by Jean Carlo Emer from Pinterest
Better watch that mouth
Of yours.
Through it venom pours.
It’s like a runaway train
steamrolling
life-long friendships
You got a mouth.
You got a brain?
The phone rings.
Me: [chirpy] Oh Hi Lynne. Good to hear from you.
L: Oooops. Sorry, John. Didn’t mean to phone you. I pressed the wrong button.
Me: [shoulders slump] Don’t feel bad, Lynne. Most people who phone me don’t mean to.
L: Oh.
Me: It’s alright. I’ll have a little weep in the broom closet and get over it. Until the next time, that is. But just don’t ask me ….
L: [sounding worried]. What?
Me: RUOK?
L: Well are you?
I hang up.
She had just come from the clinic from seeing the care nurse and seemed a little flustered.
Everything okay? he asked.
There was a medical student there. I said to the nurse I didn’t mind. He was neat, presentable, well spoken and was totally okay except for the fact he kept adjusting his crotch.
Perhaps he was just glad to see you.
That isn’t even remotely funny. Not these days.
Sorry, he said. I’ll be back in a minute.
Where are you going?
To the bathroom. To wash my mouth out with soap.
John Malone 