Freakishly Thin


I didn’t know how freakishly thin he was till
I saw the photo in ‘Far Out’ magazine
of the young Nick
Cave
.
What a head of hair, a squall of black,
lean and loose-limbed, hardly anything of him,
but a chiselled face staring knowingly and determinedly into the future.
He knew what he wanted.
He had the bridled brawn to do it.
I have always admired thinness. the Nick
Cave
kind
not the thinness of the heroin addicts
I’d see in the backstreets
of the city
nor the thinness of the wan weakling
I saw in the fish ‘n’ chip shop
whom a mere breeze could bowl over
but a macho sort of thinness
that seems to have passed me by.

* pic courtesy of Pinterest
 

The Company of Paradoxes

The sweetness in a bitter cup of tea,

one spoonful of sugar less;

the eloquence in silence,

the sadness at the heart of jollity,

the pareidolia of seeing patterns

where there is none;

the pitter patter of a pandemic

coming down the pike

I Do My Best Work in Bed

I do my best work in bed, she said.

I do my best work in bed.

When all is said and done,

I do my best work in bed.





Scurry beneath the covers,

pull the sheet up over my head.

I do my best work in bed, she said.

I do my best work in bed.





It’s where my magic garden is,

my fantastic flower bed

where poems and images blossom

& music plays in my head.





Some think better sitting up,

but I’m too easily misled.

I do my best work in bed, she said.

I do my best work in bed.

  • pic by Pinterest
  • * have you a special place where you find inspiration?

Happy

What I need is another day of the week.

Would that make people happy?

I could divide my time equitably then.

Or perhaps find my doppelganger

and if he has nothing going on in his life

could he stand in for me on occasions

or, better still, on a regular basis,

perks included, of course?

Or, failing that, what would you have me do?

Bifurcate?

Home

Lola’s in her basket.

Tiffany’s in her tank.

I wouldn’t want to sleep

out. It is cold and dank.

Soph is in her frame

that sits upon the wall.

She is twenty eight forever

and loves us all.

The food lives in the bread bin,

the pantry and the fridge.

It is there to succour us

that we all may live

Me & Mrs, Crasthorpe

I am going to bed with Mrs. Crasthorpe.

I have been to bed with her before.

It was a most pleasant experience.

Her husband is dead. She is a free woman now.

She is fit and feisty and when she’s breathed in the briny air of Eastbourne, she loosens up and tells me.

She has generously full lips. blonde hair and grey-blue eyes and is the ripe old age of 59.

Nothing unseemly passes between us, however.

Sadly she is an invention of William Trevor.

The Perfect Tea Spoon

It is the perfect tea spoon

small

slender

stubby handled

like the pen

I write with

snug as a haiku

in my hand

ready to stir

the sullen brew

to life

  • have you a special piece of cutlery or a small everyday item that is dear to you?

Them

You can’t swat them

with yr hand.

                       spray them

with disinfectant.

                                      or repel them

with incense coils.

They won’t buy it.

And you can’t

                      shut them out.

Not even

                                                          in yr room

at night.

Bite.    Bite.       Bite.

They whinge and they whine.

Those old anxieties, What ifs?

Those mozzies                     of yr mind.

The Sky Goes Goth

the sky

has gone

Goth;

dyed its hair

inky black;

the dark clouds squinch

like too tight jeans

letting

no light

through;

a Greek chorus of crows

caw

from the bare boughs;

thunder

mumbles

like Nick Cave’s intro

to Red Right Hand