I don’t feel like meat tonight.
Red or white.
Perhaps bananas and ice cream
Though I remember what my son once said about ice cream,
How it’s made from the feathers of birds.
I’ve never felt right about it since.
I’m afraid to look it up in case it’s true
And I’ll feel even worse.
But ice cream feels right.
It’s a hot evening. I’ve had eggs and bacon for lunch
So something soft seems just the ticket..
I just wish I never heard that about ice cream,
That the thought would just grow wings and fly away.
pic courtesy of Pinterest by ehow.com
I wish I could come up with something,
I really do.
I mean how long can it take for inspiration to strike?
Do I have to stand outside in an electrical storm under the tallest Norfolk pine to be struck?
Metaphorically speaking, of course.
I know slouching around doesn’t help or reading Beth’s poem on Cheetos and working up an appetite for snack foods won’t do it either.
Maybe if I played with my Rubik’s Cube like Maro does might do it — loosen up a few brain cells.
Perhaps if I go outside and wail beneath the full moon like uncle did before they took him away.
God, there must be something.
They still do ECT, don’t they?
That’s what happened to uncle. He saw God, angels, the whole shebang then settled down among the fairies at the bottom of the garden.
But he found something. He wasn’t wracked anymore. He found quiescence. If you got that, you don’t need anything else.
Shit, did I just write all that?
Like many writers I keep a journal, jottings of my jousts
jests, jumbled thoughts,jaunty glimpses
of how things are
inside their skins,
a goulash of impressions
my larger poems feast upon
so they won’t be thin;
not a morsel is left untouched, wasted;
you will find them inserted
in my posts,
sneaky little apercus that say the most.
That little kid in Maccas
from Aldinga Primary
with one hand on his yellow scooter
is picking up his order as I
am putting mine through.
Hello, he says brightly
& I say, hello, back
& I think should I be even speaking
with this kid?
[hasn’t he heard of stranger danger?]
so I ask him when did school go back
& he says, Monday so I ask him what grade he is in
[ he isn’t that little]
so I guess, Year seven
& he says, Year 5
& adds he comes each morning to Maccas
to fill up his tummy
so he can work hard .
He collects his pancake with chocolate syrup and strawberry milkshake
& scoots off
with his bag of calories and good work ethic.
*pic courtesy of Wiki Commons
Do I feel like a Venetian?
No, I do not feel like a Venetian.
How about a banana?
No, I do not feel like a banana.
Well you have to have something.
How about some raisin toast? bowl of cereal?
Ummmm, but no.
Have some coffee then. You can always have coffee.
Yes, but what to have with it?
Houston, we have a problem.
I know I want something.
Look, you just can’t flail on the lounge like a fish
on a jetty.
I’ll have fish then, that salmon left over from last night.
“Will this do?” you say to your stomach at three in the morning. “Can I go to bed now?”
“Just a minute,” your stomach says. “Have I had enough?”
I know what it’s thinking: too little, it’ll come back for more; too much it will churn out nightmares.
“Perhaps a little more?” says the stomach, looking up at me pleadingly like a cat.
“No,” you decide, “You can have more in the morning like normal stomachs do. Come on.”
“Where are we going?”
“Where do you think?”
And it follows you back to bed, shoulders a little slumped.
Tight-fisted , they are hard
as knuckles and spoiling
for a fight
as they tumble like marbles
on to the floor , little green foot-
balls begging me
to sink the boot in ;
even under the knife
they are tough
as nails covering themselves
in layers like Chinese
boxes or onions ;
they leap around
in the saucepan like
boxers’ fists ;
ten minutes later
I swallow them ; anything
The Cat inside me cannot settle.
“Do you want to go in or out?” I say.
She does not know.
She winds her way around my feet then nips my ankle.
“Okay, okay, I get it. You want food.
You always want food,”
I bend down, give her some leftovers
“You were only fed a few hours ago,” I say.
“No. Not croissants”, she says.
“And certainly not a banana. I’m not a fucking monkey.
I want Stone Baked Ciabatta Loaf with honey.”
She is anything if not specific.
But, of course, we haven’t any.
I drive down to the supermarket, my inner cat
Turning with anticipation.
I get home. Give her some.
She’s satisfied. And so am I.
We both flop on the mattress and have
an afternoon nap.
The cat inside me purrs.
You got to feel sorry for single white rolls.
Even in packs they can’t make a go of it.
Maybe they should take a good hard look
consult relationship experts like couples
on Married …
or search for roll-mates on Tinder.
There must be someone out there.
If ‘Baked Fresh’ doesn’t confer any advantages
I don’t know what does.
Even when consumed they die alone.
It must be a lonely existence.
The cat had just killed a canary.
Bad, bad cat, said the bird lover who was staying at my place for the weekend.
Easy, I said, Remember what happened at the restaurant last night when you ordered barramundi for the first time and complained it was too fishy?
Well, I said, you may as well berate a barramundi for being a fish as to castigate a cat for killing a canary.