A Bird Flew into My Mouth

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A bird flew in my mouth.

I gulped in horror.

If it were a mozzie,

A blowfly,

No worries

But a bird

A wattlebird at that.

It panicked in the echo chamber of my mouth.

I wrestled it with both hands

Trying to pry it loose.

Suddenly it plopped out like a fish.

It staggered in the air.

I staggered along the path.

A bird in the mouth is worth two in the bush.

My friend quipped.

So how was it? he asked.

Surreal, I clucked. Surreal

The Wall

Housefly_on_a_leaf_crop

She calls from one of the Northern beaches.

“We were going mad, “ she says. “We had to get out the house, You know what it’s like. You start twiddling your thumbs, staring at the wall…”

“Or even climbing it,” I add.

“Yeh, like a spider,” she says.

“Or even the ceiling.”

She chuckles.

“Things look better from up there,” I say.

“Where?”

“The ceiling.”

“You okay, granddad?”

“Yeh, I’m okay. You kids have a good time, Thanks for calling.”

And I crawl a little further along the ceiling. A fat, juicy fly has landed nearby. With one bound ,,,,

A Half-Van Gogh

Vincent_van_Gogh_-_Self_portrait_with_bandaged_ear_F529

“I am getting a half -Van Gogh,” I say over the phone.

“A half -Van Gogh? What is that?”

“You know how Van Gogh lopped off his left ear after a fit of madness, or so it’s claimed?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I’m getting half my left ear, the lobe lopped off.”

Silence.

“Why? Why would you do that?”

“It’s cancerous.”

“Oh dear.”

“You said you would love me even if I had half my face missing.”

“I know but …”

“Hello. Hello…”

Ring tone.

 

Sexual Predator

everythings_eventual

 

“No rest for the innocent”, she sighs —

As she looks out the back door.

 

“Looks like he’s raping her again.

He’s as randy as Harvey Weinstein”.

.

“For fuck’s sake, they’re blackbirds,” I say.

.”How anthropomorphic can you get?

 

And anyway, all things being eventual.

The act might well be consensual.”

Trouble

 

ominous-clouds-bandw

 

I can hear trouble brewing

I can hear it in the leaves

I can hear it in the murmur

Of the apocalyptic bees

 

I can hear trouble brewing

I can hear it in the traffic

I can hear trouble brewing

I try not to panic

 

I can hear it in the boondocks

I can hear it in the city

Whatever it is it’s coming

It’s not going to be pretty

 

Now I hear it knocking

Insistently at the door

I pull down the shades

I’m not home anymore

 

But the postman’s shrill whistle

Warns me it is done

Whatever it is has found me

In the mailbox under the sun