The Insoluble Problem of Motivation

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It had been on the vacant lot next to the church

For over half a year and no one in all that time

 

Could rustle up enough motivation to mow the lawn

Or clear it of rubbish. I thought of calling

 

The number on the back a few times but just couldn’t

Get motivated enough to ring or attend one

 

Of their weekly meetings & I thought about something

A friend had said about running a Special Olympics

 

For the Motivationally Challenged but the problem

With that, I said, was that nobody would bother

 

To turn up. I thought then of the historically highly

Motivated: Hitler, Stalin, the rapacious bankers, Isis

 

And concluded that a low motivated populace isn’t

Necessarily a bad thing.

 

At the Physio: A Humerus Poem

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As soon as you walk in you see them paraded

along the walls

exemplars of Beauty and Strength:

Warnie unleashing a leg spinner,

Its eye on middle stump, Krygios rocketing another ball

past his opponent,

Thorpie diving into glory,

even one of cane growers in Queensland,

big blocky blokes in blue singlets

bringing in the harvest;

of Cathy Freeman at the Sydney Olympics.

But my humerus and hamstrings

were playing up.

On good days

I can do almost anything, but

on bad ones I can barely put one foot in front

of the other, bounce a ball

let alone slam it down centre court

at 200 kph

and the only way I could get in a pool is to fall in it.

The Perverse Mathematics of Anxiety

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Something niggles you

All week

Like a nail

 

in yr shoe

And you put up with it

That’s what

 

You do.

And then it’s all over

In two minutes

 

Flat

and you wonder

hey! why did I

 

Ever worry that?

But listen up! here’s

the sting:

 

The very thing

You gave no thought

to at all

 

burdens you all week

like an extra ball

in yr pants.

 

Life is brief.

Loosen up. Don’t worry.

Dance

Bar Room Brawl

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You had to fore warn people.

It was not a good look.

Scabs and bruises on the upper lip

Sores on the nose

So you said, “bar room brawl”

Half jokingly, “but you should have seen

The other fellow.”

It was more dramatic, more grunge-romantic

Than humdrum “cold sores.”

Shuddering Flanks

 

looking at stars

There’s something about a cold, starlit night that gets me going: the glitter of the galaxies, the pixie dust of the Milky Way, the motherly eye of the moon, the peace, a full stomach. I drift to the back of the yard past the reach of the kitchen light and stand by the lemon tree — I’m told it’s always good to do it there. My flanks begin to shudder as I unzip and I piss like a stallion, throw my head back and neigh.

 

Pink Hippo

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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.

Happy Haiku

I wrote a poem once about a bath.

How you emerge from one

‘rosy-skinned and luminous as if

Fresh from a voyage’.

I had a sleep like that last night and wrote this poem.

Small plane vector illustration.

Happy Haiku
You’re a writer.
You wake up with something to say.
Already you feel the wind beneath your wings.
You hop into your little plane
And putter up into the sky
Where you write your happy haiku
Before the breeze blows it away.