I want to get up.
I want to see how much my eyes
want to see Kokki dash across the court
in his tiger shorts after his prey,
want to see those arum lilies again
trumpet their hosannas to orange,
want another pod coffee
another shot of Bailey’s
just a thimble full
but my partner sees me passing by.
You should rest your eyes, she says and I say,
too much to see,
and I know what she’s about to say
even before she says it:
my mummy would have called you,
a Greedy Gubbins, she’ll say
and then she says it,
I got it.
I got the message.
No hanky panky.
No chasing after
in the park.
No bending down
or reaching up..
It’s only been two days
*pic courtesy of pinterest
You apologize to the cat
the turtle in the tank
the goldfish in its bowl
and yr other half
in her room.
What got into you?
You’re not an IED
primed to go off
at the least provocation.
You coulda done better, mate.
You coulda done better.
in their rumble jackets,
they waylaid me
at the foot
of the jetty
one thrust a pamphlet
in my face
& I waved it away
saying, not interested
& he said
in a thick Russian accent,
why you not interested
& the others milled around;
I dug my hands
into my pockets
& strode up the jetty
wondering what Jesus would make of
these ruffians of the Lord
Last night was brutal.
We fought like Godzilla vs Kong.
Boxers slugging it out in the ring.
Cage fighters gouging and kicking.
Oooops. Is that an eyeball in my hand?
We were earnest. Furious.
Mean as gorillas. Cut-throat as pirates.
In the end we smoked the peacepipe.
What was that all about? she asked..
I don’t know, I said.
Look, next time, can we please agree what we’re fighting about?
- pic courtesy of maxsportstz.blogspot.com
I like a poem with muscle
a poem with vim and vigor
I like a poem with its hand
firmly on the trigger
Love a poem low and lusty
a poem that readily scans
the sort of poem that you hear
at a poetry slam
No wonder there are so many love songs.
There are so many ways of getting love wrong.
Most celebrate one or more of these.
There’s more mileage in them than in ecstasy,
a much rarer state to which we all aspire,
happy to burn in love’s all cancelling fire ,
shortcomings forgotten, emotions turbo-charged,
our lives in an instant totally enlarged.
These songs are the apex of creativity
even as they approach ineffability.
*what are some of your favourite love songs?
He laughed loudly.
A door closed behind him.
He laughed a little more loudly still.
Another door closed behind him. Slammed!
He continued. He chortled. He guffawed. He jeered.
A text message came through.
“Will you STOP laughing, please? You’re annoying me.”
No, he said to himself. No. It’s my evening and I’ll laugh if I want to.
And he laughed even more loudly.
The walls themselves laughed loudly too, splitting their sides.
The cross-eyed cat doubled up with laughter.
A door opened quietly behind him.
The man was too busy laughing to notice.
The cord tightened around his throat.
This was no laughing matter.
That’s the stuff you’re keeping out of your poems,
Ted Hughes said to his dismantling wife,
smashing the mahogany tabletop, the high stool,
during one of their periods of interminable strife
and I thought of the things each of us omits
when we sit down and write our little poems,
our peccadilloes, annoying habits, the times
we’ve ghosted or been ghosted on our phones,
whether at times we’ve kicked the dog or cat
or when someone’s needed us we didn’t give a rats.
Little things we’d rather not disclose
like walking around in our poems without clothes