Shaking All Over

The way you get worked up.

I can hear you, the noise of your coming, three rooms away.

Are such outbursts necessary?

Why, even the walls vibrate,
Now you’re really going.

Hope you don’t bust anything.

You’re not that young anymore, remember.

There’s no doubt you give it your all.

Do you enjoy it?

Sounds as if you do.

Now you’ve gone quiet, can I come in?

Yes ! The  clothes are done, giddy with all that spinning.

One hour, twenty. Wish I had your stamina.

You must be exhausted.

The Woods

The rash on my back

has dimmed:

angry red

to demure blush.

I wish I never

had thrush

in my left nostril —

in that cramped cave

hard for the air

to get through

but the meds kept

the wolf at bay,

subdued.

Almost out of the woods

like Red Riding Hood.

The Crotch of the Matter

Halfway through my walk I get this poem in my head.

I’ve got to write it down.

I pick up pace, hurry through the Brickworks Market. Someone surely ….

A stall owner looks up as I go past.

“You got a pen and paper?” I ask. “I’ve got this poem here — [pointing to my head] — I got to write down.”

“Sure,” he says, “do I get my biro back?”

“Of course,” I say. “Do I get to keep the paper?”

He gives a feeble smile.

“What’s yr name?” I say. “Yr first name? I’ll dedicate the poem to you.”

What human being could resist such a grand gesture?

“Costa”, he says in a deadpan voice.

Just then his mobile rings.

It’s his girlfriend. He brightens up. A lascivious smile crosses his lips.

He gives me a wink.

He yabbers on what they’ll get up to tonight while I furiously write. It’s hard to stay focused.

Some of what he says gets in the poem.

He keeps adjusting his crotch.

That gets in the poem too.

Then I sense the dialogue winding down as I stagger to the end of the poem like a runner over the finishing line.

“Here”, I say. “I’m done”,

I’m hoping he’ll ask for a copy or at least a read.

But Costa isn’t interested.

He only wants his biro back.

“No hard feelings”, I say. “This poem’s still dedicated to you”.

And I write his name, Costa, above it in bold letters with a flourish.

But I needn’t have bothered.

The poem’s crap.

a Flatulent Thought

It’s alimentary, my dear Watson

said Sherlock of the fart

but it’s in how you use it

that’s the tricky part





It can be used as exclamation

or as a well-timed riposte

or to prick the bubble of pomposity

when perspective is lost





or just to let the body go

in unbridled hilarity

a fart is the highest honour

you can bestow on ribaldry





I hope you are taking notes, Watson

of all that I impart

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m feeling

flatulent as a fart.





pic courtesy of wikipedia

Affliction

It wasn’t an affliction

like polio

though it crippled you

just the same.

There were no calipers

for crippled speech.

You had to hobble around

conversations

as best you could

hoping no one would notice.

They did.

When things went badly

when you were teased

you put yourself into

the iron lung of shame —

& stayed for days.

*pic courtesy on Pinterest

the Blue Bucket

It’s not the blue bucket

of Hope

nor the one set aside

for my Bucket List

nor the metaphorical one

we kick when we die

but a simple supermarket bucket

I put beside my bed

each New Years’ Eve

after a big night

just in case

Torpedoes

I want to make a bee line for the shop —

there is panic buying again —

but my bowels won’t let me,

Please let me go, I say.

But my bowels are recalcitrant.

When they get in this mood there is nothing

you can do.

I threaten them with torpedoes,

my moondrop grapes

but they grip their fists even harder

against the attack.

So rather than sit and wait & twiddle my thumbs

I write this little poem.

My bowels immediately relent.

There are enough bad bowel poems out there

anyway.

Mine does not want to be added to the list.

My bowels heave a sigh of relief.

Barfing in the Bushes

claire-satera-0lk4hww7pdo-unsplash.jpg

There’s a cartoon of a couple in a car

tearing down a roller coaster

and the woman says to the man, “With you screaming all the time,

I can’t hear myself scream.”

Men are so much noisier than women, my partner says.

When I began barfing in the bushes at a country fair

She implored

, “Can’t you barf quietly? Everybody is watching.”

Barfing has no volume control,

I wanted to say

but I was too busy being sick.

 

  • photo by Claire Satera on Unsplash

 

I Did That Once

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I took two of my mates to the vet the other day.

The Jack Russel came too.

Three of us were on valium.

All except me. I was the designated driver.

Do you mind taking the dog for a walk, I asked, in case he pees in the car?

They shuffled along the street like zombies, Les had taken three, Dave four with a few beers, but the dog’s eyes lit up when he came to a bush on the verge and he lifted his leg the way dogs too —- I tried it once and made a mess — but he was too doped to pee,

He managed in the car though but Les had a pee blanket under him so that was alright.

As we drove Eddie, the Jack Russell, put his head out the window, his ears flapping in the breeze.

That’s so cool, I said. I did that once but the cop who pulled me over told me to pull my head in, it was dangerous.

Dogs have all the fun, Les said, but he was slurring his words.

It was only five minutes into the trip.

It was going to be a doozie.