the wrong shape
*pic courtesy of Wikipedia
the wrong shape
*pic courtesy of Wikipedia
You used to call out when we had sex, he said.
You would raise the roof and ululate.
Street lights would flare, power lines fizz
with excitement, fruit bats rise from their roosts in alarm.
Whole shrouds of them.
Why, even the bed shook as if it were coming.
The very veins in my wrists wanted to pop.
It’s awfully florid, the editor said.
It’s meant to be a romance novel, not a porno.
Can you tone it down a little?
You & me, we bifurcate
you come early, I come late.
You like trains, I like buses.
I don’t know what the fuss is.
You my tunnel, I’m your train.
We have each other on the brain.
You like reds, I like whites
you my afternoon delight.
pic courtesy of Pinterest
I wonder how often they make love out there in the garden?
It gives a new meaning to the phrase ‘hard on’
I wonder is it a man and a woman?
I creep up to get a better look but they turn on me with a stony gaze.
I just hope they are discreet when the grandkids come over
or disengage for dear old great grandma.
A sight like that could finish her off.
I must say though they do have a marmoreal presence
and no unseemly sounds come from them.
Perhaps they are conscious of passers-by like me, voyeurs
and let it all hang out at night when only the stars and the big white eye
of the moon are watching.
I just hope they don’t get too rambunctious though:
that tap on the right looks a bit dodgy;
it wouldn’t take much to snap it and water come spurting out
like … like …
Discretion forbids me to extend the simile.
Halfway through my walk I get this poem in my head.
I’ve got to write it down.
I pick up pace, hurry through the Brickworks Market. Someone surely ….
A stall owner looks up as I go past.
“You got a pen and paper?” I ask. “I’ve got this poem here — [pointing to my head] — I got to write down.”
“Sure,” he says, “do I get my biro back?”
“Of course,” I say. “Do I get to keep the paper?”
He gives a feeble smile.
“What’s yr name?” I say. “Yr first name? I’ll dedicate the poem to you.”
What human being could resist such a grand gesture?
“Costa”, he says in a deadpan voice.
Just then his mobile rings.
It’s his girlfriend. He brightens up. A lascivious smile crosses his lips.
He gives me a wink.
He yabbers on what they’ll get up to tonight while I furiously write. It’s hard to stay focused.
Some of what he says gets in the poem.
He keeps adjusting his crotch.
That gets in the poem too.
Then I sense the dialogue winding down as I stagger to the end of the poem like a runner over the finishing line.
“Here”, I say. “I’m done”,
I’m hoping he’ll ask for a copy or at least a read.
But Costa isn’t interested.
He only wants his biro back.
“No hard feelings”, I say. “This poem’s still dedicated to you”.
And I write his name, Costa, above it in bold letters with a flourish.
But I needn’t have bothered.
The poem’s crap.
Come to me, says the garbage truck to his love,
Waiting on the edge of the road for him,
You’re late, she says, looking at her watch.
I’ve been here since early morning.
Never mind, he says. It’ll be worth it
Grabbing her firmly around the waist,
Clutching her with his cold metallic hands,
You could have warmed them first, she says
Never mind the temperature, feel the grip,
he answers. Come into these loving arms,
Now. Doesn’t that feel good?
Wasn’t that worth the wait?
I bet you say that to all the bins, she says
As he gently places her back on the sidewalk.
See you next Thursday, he calls back.
I like to comb my hair before I go to bed in case I meet my Maker.
I put on clean underwear before I go out in case I get hit by a truck or tram and end up in hospital. You want to look yr best.
Mum taught me these things.
Always repent to God yr sins before you go to sleep. Whiteness of soul is as important as whiteness of underwear.
An idle mind is the devil’s workshop, mum emphasised. She needn’t have worried. My mind was always busy.
But if she knew what I was thinking she would have washed my dirty little teenage mind out with soap.
I’ve had it with you —
You’ve had yr rations —
Your cheap lusts
And easy passions
* photo by vera arsic on pexels.com
The problem was I wasn’t getting any and I was pissed off by those who were —- and the timing was dreadful, 6a.m. after a heavy night.
It wouldn’t have been so bad — in fact I probably wouldn’t have heard it at all —-if I hadn’t opened the house up before hitting the sack but the bureau had predicted gully breezes during the night, just the thing to cool the house down after the heatwave. So I heard it loudly and clearly. But what was it?
I had to get up and find out. Of course, soon as I go outside, the noise stops.
So I stand still. It starts again. Meek little noises and a furious flapping . It comes from the hedge. High up.
Hey! I call out. Hey?
Just then a head pops out, glaring at me as if I am the intruder and not it.
What the fuck are you staring at? He asks.
Now I’m not in the habit of speaking to pigeons even ones that speak to me first but this one clearly has an attitude.
I get the leaf blower. It isn’t a 44 magnum but it blows them right away.
That afternoon they’re at it again, he and his paramour, on the clothes line humping amongst all the clean washing.
Hey! I say. Hey!
He looks down , glaring at me. Don’t even think about it! He says.
You’re over the top, mate, way over the top. You need taking down a peg or two.
He groans. She groans. Even I groan at the gratuitousness of such a pun.
Ahh well, pigeons will be pigeons I say and head inside for a snooze.