Crack

Crack

Not the crack in the cosmic egg

Nor the crack addicts smoke

Not even the crack in crack, snapple, pop breakfast cereal

but the bum crack

of Mr. Hairy

at the Eye Clinic

when he bent over to pick up

a form he had dropped

his shirt rolled up,

his jeans slipped a notch or two.

Everyone copped an eyeful.

I cracked a smile.

Some tittered.

Mr. Hairy was oblivious.

*pic courtesy of pexels.com

Ants Doing Yoga — & Other Wild Things

Ants Doing Yoga

I was watching ants filing back and forth the other day

When two pulled ovef for a chat; and I wondered how it was





They knew each other seeing they all look alike; and I

Concluded they must have individual features like us:





Hooked noses, for instance, bushy eyebrows, little pot bellies

And carry nicknames like ‘Shorty’, ‘Ginge’ or ‘Spike’





And further ants must have little to say seeing they say it

So quickly, but mostly I wondered where ants are off to





All the time; it is hard to imagine them doing yoga, or chilling

Out at the cricket or at the beach in a deckchair or moshing out





in a mosh pit to Adam and the Ants. So where do ants go?

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.

Is It Okay?

Is it okay to take a post down?

I took a post down the other day

but no one noticed,

said anything.

Look, it had its chance.

But no one came up and asked it

to dance.

It slumped, sad and neglected on the page,

loudly weeping.

You can’t have that on a public forum.

It’s like that Philip Hodgkins poem, ‘Shooting the Dogs’.

I had to take it down to the basement,

put it out of its misery.

I just hope no one was watching.

Shrek

This is Shrek.

Say hello to Shrek.

As you can see this Shrek is NOT a fictional character

but real flesh and blood.

Nor is he green or ogre-ish.

Shrek works at the Stunned Mullet,

the best fish and chip shop in the suburbs

cooking and serving customers.

His real name is Srikanth and comes from India.

Workers at the Hilton near the airport where he used to work

contracted his name to ‘Shrek’ in 2016.

Srikanth loves it and has been called ‘Shrek’ ever since.

He is warm and amiable and has a wicked sense of humor.

When you get served by Shrek it brightens your day.

But What If I …

But What If I ….

I don’t think I can run anymore.

What?

I run out of puff. I can walk fast though. Does that count?

But you’re a running joke. Can’t you push yourself?

But what if I damage my hamstring?

Then you’ll become a lame joke. Get it?

Hey, I’m the one supposed to be cracking the jokes here.

Then run, for god-sakes, run.

*pic courtesy of pinterest

Houdini

Houdini
 
She’s the Houdini of hounds

getting in and out of tight spaces .

Her piece de resistance ?
The burying-in-the-blanket trick .

Performed while we’re asleep .

The props ?

A wicker basket with ground sheet
and blanket .

The technique ?

A mystery BUT
she wraps herself inside that blanket —
a hot dog —
against the cold .

In the morning we go out eyes
wide with amazement .

At the sound of biscuits sprinkled
in the bowl
she extricates herself
 
from her woolen prison
faster than Houdini
from his padlock and chains .
 
 

Water Towers

Water Towers

To the uninitiated , mysterious as

the moon monoliths in 2001 ;

pensioned off light-houses ? a giant’s

apartment house or a giant

phallus set in cement , a reminder

to the young colony —

populate or perish ? they come in

all shapes and sizes ; rise

suddenly from the landscape like

mushrooms with their long

stalks and caps yet exist singly —

it is houses that cluster

around them ; scattered around the

countryside they are tall

as wheat silos though their bellies

seem full of water

but why windows — for fish to peer

through ? or doors — what if

someone should break in ? only the tops

hold water , I am told ,

like a water tank on a stand ; largely

redundant , now they are

being sold off like unwanted churches ;

yet I consider them ,

their brief reign ; for me they always

held more than water

  • pic courtesy of Wikipedia

One Day They’ll Wake up to Me

One day they’ll wake up to me.

They’ll say, he doesn’t read the books he requests we purchase.

He just flits through them

Why does he even bother?

And I’ll say, ‘coz the book reviews were inspiring

or I read an extract in ‘The New Yorker’ or ‘SMH’,

But when I went to read it I got bored: the characters were flat, the plot rambling, the writing uninspired.

A bit like some of your posts, a snide librarian might say.

My Friday friend once said, I had the attention span of a gnat.

Ouch!

I don’t know what’s wrong with me.

I did finish a book a few years ago.

That was a book of short stories. Does that count?

Anyway, they’ll blacklist me soon, and everyone will be happy.

Whoop

Sometimes when I’m driving along

the window down, wind winnowing my hair,

the sun giving me the thumbs up,

I break out in spontaneous whoops of joy.

No, I don’t have Tourette’s.

I haven’t won the Lottery.

I’m just laughing zebra happy,

turning cartwheels happy,

walking on my hands happy.

It’s infectious. I whoop some more.

You wouldn’t want to be a passenger.