Big Guns

I had my big guns ready.

The script already rehearsed in my head.

There were some epithets to let fly.

Rebuttals for any diffidence.

I was asking my mercurial mate a favour

one he might bridle at

though I had both barrels loaded

‘after all I’d done for you….’

the rifle was cocked and ready.

I was Chuck Norris, Vin Diesel, Dirty Harry

rolled into one.

When I got him on the phone

and asked, he rolled over like a cat.

I was a little disappointed.

Bad Company

How’s your girlfriend going? she asks tonelessly..

Pam? Yeh, she’s okay, I say.

You seem to need somebody, she says. A wife, partner, a female friend.

And you don’t?

No. I must be stronger, she conjectures in her haughty voice. I can live with myself. I don’t need anyone.

Loneliness is a morose companion, I add.

She says nothing.

pic by Joey Monsoon courtesy of Pinterest

Bee Music

I am sitting down reading to the drone of bees.

A copy of the TLS lies open on my knees.

We must get a frizzle on, my partner exclaims

Apropos of nothing then goes off again

To attend the roast, while I attend to the Times.

There’s a lost poem by Hardy which clumsily rhymes.

A frizzle or two? Whatever can she mean?

I scratch my head then read once again.

I take another sip of my beloved cab sav

While she takes a pee in the outdoor lav.

The Albino

So these pigeons wing in from the wild sky,

their coats a rainbow sheen, but when the sun goes in,

they’re all drab, all except one, a pretty little albino,,

white as the Taj Mahal, and when they descend

on the grass patch near the footbridge, and start pecking away,

happy as diners in a food court, you can just tell

these guys all hang out together, weekends, whenever,

them and their albino mate and I ask Daz, ‘cause he knows

everything, why we can’t do that, Daz, coloureds and whites,

one happy family and he says because we’re not pigeons, that’s why.





*pic courtesy of Rodolfo Clix on pexels.com

Reciprocity

I was thinking of Beth’s post*

from the previous night

about the free exchange of art objects

in Ann Arbor.

Beth’s home town

begun by glass-maker Shawn Bungo

& I thought,

hey!

we do that all the time

posting our little gifts to each other:

our poems, ruminations, stories

our apercus

freely on the web,

leaving our comments, LOLs,

emojis of approval

practicing the noble art of reciprocity

that is never lost

& enriches a community wherever

it is found






			

Fridays circa 5p.m.

There’s nothing I like better doing

than sitting here in a quiet corner

of the pub

with my Mongolian beanie on

waiting for my mates to rock up

while I have a quiet read.

I know it smacks of vanity

when I pull out my iPhone

and scroll through my posts,

reading what I said, what others said,

how many likes I got.

I like what I wrote and how I say it:

the long, slouching sentences,

the laconic phrases

[Hey! I’m an Ausssie]

the odd syntax here and there

[ like the first line of this post ].

One should be as comfortable in one’s voice

as in the clothes one’s wearing.

I like the merry banter of patrons in the bar too,

the warm embrace of companionship

as I like to gather my poems around me

like boon companions

until my real friends, my flesh and blood friends,

turn up

the T-Shirt Keeps its Cool

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The T- shirt isn’t dumb. It knows what’s coming. Soon as I get in the door, I let it rip.

What do you mean, lapping up all the praise? They’re my mates. I didn’t know you’d dominate the conversation. You were shameless.

I didn’t do a thing, the T – shirt says. I just sat there, on you, covering up your flab.

You could have been more inconspicuous.

Hey, you chose me. It’s not my fault you chose a loud T-shirt. And anyway, you know what they say?

What?

If you’ve got it, flaunt it.

You certainly did that.

We look at each other in the mirror for a minute or two.

Anyhow, I say, I still like you. You look great.

Look at it this way, the T-shirt says, the next time you take me out, your mates will be over it. They’ll move onto you.

I guess you’re right, I say. We mustn’t get too precious.

Friends? Says the T-shirt.

Friends, I say and  put my arms around myself, giving the T a good hug.

Staying in with a Friend

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I’m staying in with a friend today.

Like me he doesn’t look for other company.

We’ll probably lounge around, watch Netflix, maybe go out the back for a spot of sun if it’s shining then back inside.

Telly, sleep, periodic caffeine hits.

Don’t answer the door if someone knocks.

Maybe check out this post to see if it’s got any likes or comments.

Think about food a little later.

More caffeine so we can stay awake long enough to eat it.

Not enough to bust any moves. No, No, No dancing today.

Oh and more meds to fight off this fucking cold — sorry, buddy —

which as the Kinks say, ‘has really got a hold on me.’

Cue Dave Davies. And The Two Ronnies.

So it’s goodnight from me, and goodnight from him.