I don’t like the way the branches slouch,
my grandfather would have said.
It shows a lack of moral fibre.
Grandfather did not approve of droop
though I think he could have cut the branches
The best people slouch at times.
Oscar Wilde certainly did though he was no slouch.
And Tilda Swinton and Anne Hathaway were spotted
slouching at the Golden Globes.
I like the way Fridays slouch towards the weekend.
Poems should slouch a little too.
They should not appear cinched and pained
as if wearing a tight pair of underpants.
pic courtesy of Wikipedia
Harvesting the cane would do it, so would elite tennis,
pounding the pool for Australia,
all fodder for the physio:
you lie prostrate on the plinth,
narrow as an ironing board
head down in the gap,
arms at yr sides, feet fastened at the base —
a cozy crucifixion,
planking for Jesus,
while muscles are massaged, kneaded.
coaxed into submission,
the little pummeling fists of current bringing you
to the shores of bliss
You’re in for a treat, I say.
We’re off to see Arthur.
My toes do a little tap dance on the floorboards.
Come on, you two. Mustn’t be late.
We hop in the car and we’re off.
Thirty minutes in the Waiting Room
then the call.
The doorman lets us in.
Arthur bounces up to us.
Cheerful. Chubby. Cherubic.
Have a seat, he says to my toes
resting my feet on a pouf.
30 seconds one foot.
3o seconds the other.
Done and dusted.
All over red rover.
It’s a tough job,
but someone has to do it.
he says, chirpy as a cherry.
See you in six months.
My toes do a little dance
on the way out.
The rash on my back
to demure blush.
I wish I never
in my left nostril —
in that cramped cave
hard for the air
to get through
but the meds kept
the wolf at bay,
Almost out of the woods
like Red Riding Hood.
Every now and then
I clear out the belfry of my brain
of nuisances and nits.
Does it pang my conscience?
No, not a whit.
It keeps my train of thought
from being derailed,
from being snailed
by useless baggage,
I’m unattached as the cabbage
on the shelf,
and the best part —
I’m free as a fart.
I get to be myself.
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,
Have you ever noticed how placid an ad becomes
when you put a cow in it?
Farmers too when they milk?
All my good ideas came to me while I was milking a cow,
the American painter Grant Wood
Have you ever noticed how much more pleasant
‘The Farmer Wants a Wife’ is
compared to the bitchy, sniping
‘Married At First Sight’?
We should all pat a cow in the morning, hug a tree
if we are to start the day right.
Riot-prone areas, prisons too should be equipped with cows
their melodious moos
soothing the seething masses.
emblems of placidity
a state we aspire to in these troubled times.
Look at that jetty’s
knobbly knees wading out
into the sea
I’m eating Tiramisu from Italy.
Wearing a T-shirt Made In China
Reading a Haruki Murakami story
penned in Japan.
I love flirting with danger.