Chicken Run

Chicken Run.

It was like that classic car duel

in ‘Rebel Without a Cause’

where two cars race towards a cliff

and the driver who jumps out first

is the chicken.

I was in my Holden Cruize,

he in his yellow Monaro

and he wasn’t going to let me in his lane.

This went on for half a mile.

So when we were at the intersection,

I looked across, gave him

the ‘You’re on, buddy’ sign

and soon as the lights turned.

I gunned the engine,

shot across as if flung by a catapult

my batman black against his banana yellow

burning rubber, billowing smoke,

cars horns beeping, a voice yelling,

HOOOOOON !!

which was kinda funny considering my age

but I made the turn I wanted

got my sausage sizzle and this poem.

I don’t know what got onto me.

It was my James Dean moment.

These Books

These books have been around the block.

These books have done the hard yards.

They’ve had the stuffing knocked out of them

like a much loved teddy bear,

the sort of sorry, scruffy specimens grandparents bring

to ‘The Repair Shop’ ( UK ).

Is there an equivalent place for bruised, battered books?

What happens to them?

Is there a retirement home for old books?

A Hospice where sick books go to die?

Are we allowed to visit?

Is it over for paper books,

like it is for paper bills?

Is the future for books solely digital?

I for one like to hold books

like children teddy bears.

What’s the Big Deal?

  
What’s the big deal about me doing gym three times a week?
 
You don’t need to, you say. Do a little more around the house. Like gardening.
 
Gardening isn’t cardiovascular, I say. It has a lot of health benefits but it isn’t cardiovascular. It isn’t enough.
 
And you’re seeing the skin specialist next week. What’s that all about?
 
Looking after myself, I say.
 
You fuss too much, you say. You even check your car out during the week. I’ve seen you in the driveway, wiping away the bird shit off your car. Birds gotta shit somewhere.
 
Sure but it eats away the paintwork.
 
It’s becoming a fetish, you say. And now you’re off to gym, I suppose?
 
I treat my body like my car, I say. It’s the vehicle I travel through life in.
 
 

Something Stupid

I wasn’t standing near a level crossing
being eaten alive by tiger mosquitoes waiting
for the train to pass when
I could be at the River Bar drinking with my buddies
under a cool fan
but I was stuck in the emergency ward of the RAH
waiting for the medicos
to attend to my heart attack or whatever I was having
and I had a killer thirst.
So just like George did something stupid —
stepping over the carriage links when the train lurched forward
so I discharged myself
so I could be at the pub by 5pm with my mates,
 I had to sign a waiver though.
 Nothing happened to me like losing a leg
but it could have, It could have.

The Devil’s Got My Throat

 
Can’t you see I’m struggling?

Throw me a rope.

I’ve got so much to say

but the devil’s got my throat.



There’s a bird of Joy inside me

that really wants to fly.

She’s flapping her wings madly.

Let me out, it cries.
 

But I’m dog paddling here

alone in this morass.

So throw me a rope..

I’m running out of gas.

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 Bunny Holding the Ball

when someone says, the ball’s in yr court

you know you have to do some heavy lifting.

It’s up to you.

If the shit hits the fan,

yr responsible.

The ball’s in yr court, remember?

I used to play tennis a lot, so the metaphor’s

sort of apt, but I remember tennis as a lot

of to and fro, you and someone else at the other end

but somehow it ended up just me:

the bunny holding the ball.

I can’t even remember asking for it.

How does that work?

That Person in my Head

There’s someone walking around

inside my head

padding around in his slippers

wondering

what to do with himself:

should he write a poem?

read another chapter of ‘The Freedom Circus’ ?

write a witty comment

on Beth’s ‘Wild Sounds’?

What?

Another episode of ‘Father Brown’?

it wouldn’t be so bad if he didn’t flush

the toilet so often

or go to the fridge.

Look, it’s ten o’clock, I say to him,

could you please

settle down

so I can get some sleep?

A Bit of Biffo

I just got back from the gym on a mild, sunny morning,

walked into my study, went onto my laptop and walked

into a storm. Two bloggers whom I follow were sparring

online. It’s not often you see this level of engagement

and in a sense it was bracing: I felt like saying,

hey guys! calm your farm but thought that may come across

as talking down to them. Sometimes beliefs must be

hotly defended — a bit of biffo has its place —but I hoped

for some sort of conciliatory gesture.

No one wants a knock-out blow. Heaven knows where

this argument will end. No Names. No pack drill.

Forever Outsiders

Is this you in the photograph? Big, hulking, alone among others, a little menacing?

Writing is an hermetic act. Only other writers understand this. It can be seen as purely selfish . “You are wrapped in yourself,” I have been told more than once. “Bloated with your own self-importance.” Non-writers feel cut off, shut out, alone, forever outsiders. I do not know the answer to this, except to share what we write with our loved ones and hope they do not get envious or jealous of our special gift. Or perhaps it is better not to share, to beat others over the head with our little creations.

Perhaps it is better for writers to pair up with writers, like Ted Hughes and Sylvia Plath though we all know what a disaster that turned out to be though I am sure there have been happy unions.

*what do you think?

* this post was inspired by Carolyn Cordon’s most recent post

* photo by alex plesovskich on Unsplash