And the Way He Glares at Me


I don’t want to face him again today. Each morning it’s the same. He’s hung over, strung out, bleary-eyed, unshaven and his hair —- it looks like something slept in it overnight. He could make an effort. Spruce himself up a bit but no, the same old, same old. Mr, Ragamuffin. And the way he glares at me first thing in the morning. Is that really necessary, moaned the mirror ?

What’s Feet Got to do with it?


Get yr feet off the table I was told.

Get yr feet off the pouf.

And I thought, what the ^%$#@ ?!?!

What does it even matter if I dangle my feet

from the chandeliers?

What’s feet got to do with it anyway?

But somehow they alwats march in.

I often start off on the wrong foot these days

Step on people’s dignity

Tread on their toes

Or worse put my foot in my mouth

A mean anatomical feat if ever there were one.

So now I keep my feet firmly on the ground

Close to each other

And far enough from my mouth as possible.

This seems to keep people happy.


The Challenge


Maybe it’s the way I look or how I carry myself

but each time I go to the service station for fuel,

the attendant takes a good look at me and says

“Have a good  day. [pause]. If you can”

as if I was constitutionally incapable of it.

It makes me try a little harder.

Mistaken for a ….. once again



You can’t say ‘no’

to a bloke in a wheelchair with one leg and a busted right eye

so I reached into my pocket

to pull out some coins

but then

he said he didn’t want money.


You got any grass? He said.

Weed? I answered. No.

Look at me.

You’re asking the wrong guy.


That’s the third time in two years I’ve been mistaken

for a druggie.

Perhaps it’s that flannelette shirt and the

Faraway look I’ve had

since I was a kid.

Maybe I should wear sunnies.

Pink Hippo



You open your mouth. A pink hippo comes out. You scratch your ear, a purple gorilla. You blow your nose, a polka dot egret. You pass wind, an emerald marmoset. You wonder what will come next. You go to the toilet. You piss piranhas. Defecate falcons. Can I have some more you ask the anaesthetist but the anaesthetist has gone, the effects wearing off just as an oleaginous eel slithers from the long wound in your leg from which the surgeon removed veins for your blocked arteries.








You’ve always been jealous of thin guys, admit it, so this puny poem is a dig at ultra thinness; the humour hides the venom:


Watching this dude












Amble in,


You wonder

How he fits

His insides