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
I am re-badging my blog from a muted rural setting to a cheeky,
a bird with balls, moxie,
Marching to his own beat, on his own path.
A Stand-up comic
a delver of the Absurd.
Not a morose follower of the herd.
No, this ostrich will not bury his head in the sand.
This bird will bray,
He’s my mouthpiece. Listen to his words.
Before I met her
I always laughed at cartoons
was astonished before paintings & poems
five years later
I pass the magazine to her,
the one with the crazy cartoons.
Look at this, I say, & she does and smiles
Span our faces & rumble our bellies
like little laughing Buddhas;
Trouble shared is trouble halved,
my mother used to say — but Joy
It is doubled when spent with another.
“What are you staring at?”
“We are watching you unravelling.”
“There’s a word for that, a German word like watching people in road accidents”.
“Please don’t get distracted. Continue unravelling.”
“What if I don’t want to?”
“We’ve been watching you. You won’t be able to prevent it.”
They were right. I was like one of those wall-mounted paper towel dispensers.
Once the roll starts unravelling there’s no stopping it and I wasn’t done yet. There was still a metre or more of me to go.
Someone once said to me, Expect the Unexpected.
It seemed daring at the time so I took it on board.
The only problem was because I expected the Unexpected all the time I wasn’t really surprised when it happened.
It was expected, right?
Life was losing its surprise factor.
I felt heavy as a watermelon.
My counsellor suggested — wait for it — Expect only the Expected.
So I do,
When the Unexpected happens I light up like a lantern
twinkle like a star.
It wasn’t expected, right?
There was this kid who stood at the back of the class
When I came to read my poems
And whenever I got boring he’d rotate
His arms like the blades of a helicopter
& the more I banged on the faster
His arms would whir
Until it looked like he’d take off
His teacher and the other kids paid him
In the pause between poems he’d say,
You done yet?
And I’d say,
And he’d say, Good and slow down.
And when I stopped, he’d stop.
The eagle had landed.
Whenever I do a reading I see
That kid at the back
His arms set to rotate.
It keeps me honest.
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.
Maybe it’s the way I look or how I carry myself
but each time I go to the service station for fuel,
the attendant takes a good look at me and says
“Have a good day. [pause]. If you can”
as if I was constitutionally incapable of it.
It makes me try a little harder.