The sweetness in a bitter cup of tea,
one spoonful of sugar less;
the eloquence in silence,
the sadness at the heart of jollity,
the pareidolia of seeing patterns
where there is none;
the pitter patter of a pandemic
coming down the pike
Yes.
So what do you do in there? You’re in and out like a flash.
I wash.
In that short time? Where do you wash?
Oh, you know, in the immortal words of The Yardbirds: Over, Under, Sideways, down
I barfed off and on last night
but my heart wasn’t in it.
If you are going to barf —
‘barf’ is a much nicer word than ‘vomit’ –
you’ve got to be committed,
not lackadaisical
like the time I went to the doctor
for anti-depressants and was refused
because ‘you are not depressed enough’.
I can’t give myself wholeheartedly
to anything, it seems.
‘Except your writing’,
my ex told me.
‘Except your writing’.
Lola’s in her basket.
Tiffany’s in her tank.
I wouldn’t want to sleep
out. It is cold and dank.
Soph is in her frame
that sits upon the wall.
She is twenty eight forever
and loves us all.
The food lives in the bread bin,
the pantry and the fridge.
It is there to succour us
that we all may live
I am going to bed with Mrs. Crasthorpe.
I have been to bed with her before.
It was a most pleasant experience.
Her husband is dead. She is a free woman now.
She is fit and feisty and when she’s breathed in the briny air of Eastbourne, she loosens up and tells me.
She has generously full lips. blonde hair and grey-blue eyes and is the ripe old age of 59.
Nothing unseemly passes between us, however.
Sadly she is an invention of William Trevor.
I remember the poem Beth wrote
about the 31 cents
she took
from Hillman Bailey 111’s open desk
in primary school
and how she made up for it
over half a lifetime later
by leaving change —31c — at the checkout
for the next person to have who might have had a child
who wanted candy
and I thought , yes!!!
that is what I will do with the $250
a children’s literary magzine owes me
for the reprint of four poems
from the early 2000’s.
i can’t be bothered filling out all the forms
so I told them to donate it to a charity
so it goes back into the universe
where my poems came from anyway
O brittle love
O brittle love
whatever were we
thinking of?
one careless word
misplaced phrase
put us in a spin
for days
but now in each
other’s arms
we appreciate
our twisty charms
locked in firm,
solid embrace,
steady as stone
we’ve found our place.
You give me the shits, is perhaps the highest compliment
you can pay a piece of fruit ; moondrop grapes, for instance,
sometimes called ‘sapphires, ’ loosen the bowels and keep
you regular; I like being a regular guy; I like being called
‘a regular guy’ and wonder how they know? Does it show?
Do ‘regular guys’ emit a glow that constipated guys don’t?
Moreover, moondrop grapes are delicious and send you
in the right orbit for the rest of the day.
John Malone 