How Could I Not?

I put up a post the other minute that I knew might offend people but I wanted to honour the veracity of the experience. Would it be more acceptable if the man was the one shouting, and he was the bear of the title rather than his female partner? She did unleash a scatological attack upon the poor guy. What he had done was unclear; more likely it was what he hadn’t done. The title of the piece was unavoidable, though might have been more acceptable were it the man hurling abuse.

It was what happened. Security was called. I overheard the remark, ‘woman screaming in the mall’. It was quite an event. It stopped everyone in their tracks. I could bend over backwards to sugar-coat the experience or ignore it but I’m a writer. How could I not respond to it?

King

 

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I’m out the back writing, throwing back a cab sav,

The royal purple trumpet flowers bowing before me.

It’s not a big backyard.

But it’s mine.

I can enter my own little world if I want to.

Don’t have to answer stupid questions about my failings.

Fuck that.

There’s a balmy sea breeze blowing

And I’m reading an article by Peter Schjeldahl

Who barfed in the bright green bushes when he came home

From a college party.

The vomit was bright orange, the sky a pastel blue.

He was amazed at the colour. Later he became an art critic.

I wrote a post about barfing in the bushes, the one before this

But hardly anyone read it.

And no, I’m not TRASHING it. It’s good !

I could drink the whole bottle of wine out here

And forget about the bushfires, the bloody bushfires and the threat of war again.

Fuck that too.

It’s good out here. So good.

I’m king in my board shorts and tank top and bare feet

under a crown of blue sky

kicking back the shit

putting it in this poem.

Perhaps I will drink the whole bottle.

Cheers.

 

I Never Heard It Coming

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We’d just got back from the beach.

I pulled out a book, she put on a CD.

Peaceful, floaty music.

Music to paddle-board to.

But then it changed.

The tempo picked up, the violinists

Played furiously

Like The Two Cellos playing AC/DC.

It was ‘Winter’ by Vivaldi.

I thought, what’s there to get worked up about

With Winter?

Spring, yes, but Winter?

Sluggish, soporific Winter.

But those violins were working up a storm.

You do get storms in winter —gusts, gales, blizzards.

I wanted to get up and fight someone.

Bloody Vivaldi.

One minute I was paddle boarding, the next

I was tumbling in the wild surf.

You just can’t trust classical music.

 

have you ever come across a piece of music, rock or classical, that changes stride suddenly and drastically?

 

 

A Long Angry Pair of Trousers

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You could hear them growling

as they came up the street

bristling with fury

mumbling obscenities

the long angry pair of trousers.

They were rumpled.

They were crumpled.

They had had a bad night.

They did not want to be there.

On him.

Anywhere butt.

They were positively scopophobic

but he didn’t get it.

so they squinched his anatomy.

soiled the cuffs.

Had he not noticed?

But they were all he had

So he wore them

Those long angry pair of trousers.

 

Who Would Do That?

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Who would do that?

Put a dead pigeon in yr rubbish bin?

If it was good enough

To put in my bin

Why wasn’t it good enough

To put in theirs?

O the stink,

The weight of it!

I shovelled it out of the bin

And tossed it,

Neck all crumpled,

Into the far right hand corner of the garden

Where it could decay

In dignity

Among the cluster of leaves.

The only good thing is

It’s given me something rancorous

To write about.

 

have you had any incidents with neighbors or strangers re your rubbish bins?

Barking Mad

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There’s a wine called ‘Barking Mad’.

I liked it so much I bought six bottles and drank them all.

Not in one night, of course.

There have been times when I have been barking mad:

Over the insurance company’s delay in fixing my storm-damaged gate because ‘it is just a gate’,

Over next door’s yippee yappy dog who goes off when I piss under the lemon tree at night alarming the neighbours and the back lights go on to see what’s up [ Can’t a man piss in peace? ]

But mostly it’s the scammer with the heavy Slav accent who phones every few days to tell me my internet has been infected and will be turned off unless I phone a certain number.

It hasn’t been turned off yet and I haven’t phoned.

Over petrol prices that go up and down like a wild week at the Dow Jones.

I could go on but you get the idea.

Everyone is a Howard Beale barking mad at something.