Two Venetians

I was in bed with two Venetians, a long black

and a sleazy paperback

by Suzanne Pleshette

when an angry text erupted like a boil

on my iphone:

where were you, it said, I looked for you

& your floozy

everywhere in the cinema?

It was my old mate George.

Please don’t call her a floozy, I said.

We couldn’t make it. Sorry.

Sorry !!! Couldn’t make it.?

To see my new film, my best yet.

‘Ticket To Paradise’.

We’ll catch it on DVD, I said.

It’s not the same, he snapped,

sounding peeved and pedantic.

I don’t like hanging up on George

but he can work himself into a lather.

I dipped a Venetian into my long black

& carried on reading.

The Umbrella Song

I love to sing a capella

In the rain ‘neath my umbrella

To dance like Gene Kelly did

In the puddles like a kid

I like to make a lot of noise

I love the sound of my own voice

And I’m as rich as Rockefeller

in the rain ‘neath my umbrella.

Gleefully Unhinged

I suppose I should be getting ready

rather than hanging out here in the garden

drinking G & T’s

reading an ode to the art of ‘goofing off’

which is sort of like Jenny Joseph’s

‘When I am an old woman I shall wear purple’

which she wrote at 29

& that pic of Bill Murray at Cannes in his short-sleeved

psychedelic shirt, baby blue shorts & panama hat

looking ‘gleefully unhinged’

• pic from Style in ‘The Age’

Little Things

like the poem

the dreamy bus driver wrote

in ‘Paterson’

while idling at stop lights

or picking up passengers

the one about Ohio Blue Tip matches

in their sturdy little boxes

‘so sober and furious, ready to burst into flame’

as crafted as those of his hero

William Carlos Williams

the doctor who lived a few streets down

 who wrote that famous poem

the red wheelbarrow glazed with rain

And me realizing you can write poems

about almost anything

even a red pencil sharpener

a bowl of berries with a barrowful of dreams

and finding out

that’s where Lou Costello came from too

Paterson, New Jersey.

There’s even a park named after him,

Lou Costello the chubby comedian who played alongside Bud Abbot,

the straight guy.

I used to watch those guys in the fun-house

Of the fifties,

frolicking with Frankenstein and The Wolf man.

But it was Lou Costello

I loved

The funny little fat guy

And that’s where he came from,

Paterson, New Jersey.

the Ghost of Paul Walker

No Kangaroos.

No cops.

Just wind sideswiping
the car.

Someone’s high beam lasering yr eyes.

Booze in yr blood.

fire in yr heart.

the ghost of Paul Walker egging u on

fleeing like a fugitive

fleeing from yrself

pic courtesy of Pinterest

A Move towards Empathy

“You’re like Lee Chandler,” she said.

“Who?”

“Lee Chandler, the guy Casey Affleck plays in ‘Manchester by the Sea.”

Jackson liked that film but he did not like Lee Chandler, the way he closed himself off from people.

“That saddens me.”

“That you’re like Lee Chandler or that I mentioned it?”

“Both.”

“The reason I brought it up is that I asked you if you’d like to see Anne perform in the ballet from ‘Midsummer Night’s Dream’ and you said you’d give it a miss though I made it clear I’d like you to go.”

“I know. I’ve thought it over and would like to go see her perform.”

“Because you want to or because you’re afraid of being compared to Lee Chandler?”

“Both.”

It was a little late, Jackson admitted. It would have been better if he’d said so straight off but at least it was a move towards empathy. She would have to give him that.

Elephants

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

Where Celebrities Grew Up

Reading an article by David Remnick,

editor of ‘The New Yorker’

since 1998

I discovered

he was born in Paterson, New Jersey

the same place as Philip Roth,

the novelist whose biography Remnick was profiling,

as was Ginsberg,

the man who wrote “Howl’

that poem that still echoes down the decades.

the same place too

as William Carlos Williams,

the man who wrote ‘the red wheelbarrow’

and wait for it,

Lou Costello,

the comedic partner of Bud Abbot

whose films split our sides

in the fun house of the fifties;

what do they have in the water of Paterson, New Jersey,

that so many famous people

grew up there;

it must be quite a place

Uncle Bert

I remember Uncle Bert.

He had had a stroke.

His mouth was always open

Though he never spoke.

He sat on his armchair

Alongside Aunty Pat

Who did the speaking for him.

She was good at that.

He once looked a film star

A Gable or a Flynn.

He was a dashing rake,

Tall, handsome, thin.

But now he is all empty.

He follows Aunty Pat

Obedient as a dog

Or a Welcome mat.

Forget Eric and Ernie

Forget Eric and Ernie

Disregard Bing and Bob

There’s a new comedy duo

and they’re doing a great job

They’re funnier than Stan & Ollie

and even Bud & Lou

They’re Hobbo and his dog, Dauphy

wisdom with laughter too

Hobbo’s a retired bus driver

Dauphy a French lab

together they write droll poetry

and have a good chin wag

So do yourself a favour

as Adam Ant would say

and drop by their website

to see what they’re up to today

google 'Hobbo's poems'