You can’t swat them
with yr hand.
or repel them
with incense coils.
They won’t buy it.
And you can’t
shut them out.
in yr room
Bite. Bite. Bite.
They whinge and they whine.
Those old anxieties, What ifs?
Those mozzies of yr mind.
As soon as you stand outside someone’s place,
whip out your mobile camera and start taking snaps
of something in the street,
jacaranda flowers, for instance, carpeting the verge,
an ibis making love to a TV aerial,
a drunken, tilting fence,
someone starts singing loudly in a bathroom.
conversations break out in the hallway like a rash.
windows open or close,
to let you know they’re onto you
when all you’re doing is trying to compose a poem.
When did people start growing so suspicious of poets?
My rubbish bin has lost its lid
& asks me what to do..
“How would you feel if your Id,
was exposed to full view?
All that rancour, all that passion,
the outright lies and fibs
You wouldn’t want someone peering in
the trashcan of yr Id.
And what if the rain should tumble down?”
“All right,” I say, “all right, don’t be such a squib,
I’ll phone the local council up.
You shall soon have your lid.”
Everyone should have their lid,
pleasant though firmly secured.
The Id is not a pleasant spot
& should not be long endured.
Like George V1, the king
subject to stuttering
I had a speech therapist too
who taught me how
to word switch
to philander with synonyms
I could slip into
how to pace myself
and summon the scribe
of stutterers before me
& dear old Aesop whose thoughts
the tired tortoise of his tongue.
I’ve been wandering a little
My ego’s so brittle
My plasma is coming apart
It’s so debilitating
When you’re disintegrating
I’m going back to the start
Please don’t try to colonize me.
I’m not unclaimed territory.
I own me.
pic courtesy of Wikimedia Commons
I was tearing along the coastal route
The little white horses racing into shore
When this song came over the radio
And galloped into my heart.
I pulled over onto the shoulder.
I was transported.
I closed my eyes and let the music
8.30 seconds later I was released.
It was good to hear Derek and The Dominoes again.
It was good to hear ‘Layla’
What songs stop you in your tracks, transport you to other places? What songs do you pull over for?
What is it about the mouth?
About putting things in it?
I don’t mean food or sexual organs.
I mean items that carry far less charge
Like food or birds.
I wrote a surrealist poem called ‘A Bird Flew in my Mouth’
But could find no appropriate illustration online.
Ditto for ‘What’s Feet Got to do With It?’
About putting one’s foot in one’s mouth.
Two fine poems I cannot post because I can’t find
An appropriate illustration even one I’m willing to pay for.
I approached a few street artists but they weren’t up to it.
I paid them 5 bucks for their efforts.
They were happy with that but I wasn’t.
Let’s be up front. I can’t draw and I can’t post these poems
Without illustrations because who’s going to read them ?
so I’ll just have to write about them:
The poems I have written but can’t post.
“You won’t even know it’s there,” said the surgeon.
“My brother-in-law sure did,” I replied referring to
the incident in the ICU which I witnessed.
AS he was coming out of his sleep, he became aware of the tube down his throat and began struggling with it so violently that he had to be held down while he was put back to sleep. He stayed that way for three days.
“You won’t even be aware of it,” the surgeon said, “and if you are you won’t remember.”
I decided to go with that. In the end you have to put your faith in something.
Still, some days later as I was wheeled into the operating theatre, the last conscious thought was of that tube down my throat.
Many hours later as I slowly awoke, I remember the doctor saying, “the breathing tube is out now, you can speak.”
“What breathing tube?” I asked.
The thing is, if you don’t know something has happened to you, has it really happened?
* inspired by Billy Mac’s ‘A Daughter’s Love’ from his ‘Superman can’t find a phone booth’ blog