Will This Do?

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“Will this do?” you say to your stomach at three in the morning. “Can I go to bed now?”

“Just a minute,” your stomach says. “Have I had enough?”

I know what it’s thinking: too little, it’ll come back for more; too much it will churn out nightmares.

“Perhaps a little more?” says the stomach, looking up at me pleadingly like a cat.

“No,” you decide, “You can have more in the morning like normal stomachs do. Come on.”

“Where are we going?”

“Where do you think?”

And it follows you back to bed, shoulders a little slumped.

the Wordsworth of Weeds

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I read somewhere that weeds are the rodents of the plant world,

that they are sneakily aggressive, opportunistic, fiercely feral,

that they should be weeded out. I have heard this language before;

little good comes from it. Where are the Wordsworths of Weeds?

Plath comes closest, celebrating mushrooms. I like the strange,

tangled beauty of weeds, their punk swagger, their dogged persistence.

They too one day might inherit the earth.

 

While on the Subject of Udders

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We were driving past cows full of paddocks when my friend

asked me whether I thought bulls considered cow udders

‘sexy’? I said I hadn’t given it much thought but added,

you don’t  see many pinups of naked cows on the sides

of barns or bulls wanking off to them thoughtfully

on sunny afternoons; unsatisfied we pulled over

and did a Google Search, typing in ‘do bulls …’ to which

suggestions came up, such as ‘do bulls hate red?’, ‘do bulls moo?’ ,

‘do they have horns?’ and then the big one: ‘do bulls find

cow udders sexy?’ to which Google replied, ‘no, it’s a human thing’.

and that was that till Denzel Curry’s cover of ‘Bulls on Parade’

came over the radio, and my friend started all over again

 

* pic courtesy of Wikimedia Commons

A Very Heavy Ten Minutes

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between

1.10 and 1.20

on Saturday afternoons

he pumps out

Polaris

Parkway Drive

Bring Me The Horizon

from his tiny unit

by which time

whatever he’s got

in his system

he’s got out

or whatever he hasn’t

he’s got in

 

  • pic of Metallica onstage in London courtesy of Wikimedia Commons:

One Perfectly Round Ear

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Locked between his headphones

the scraggly haired beachcomber

scours the beach with his detector

its one perfectly round ear

listening to talk-back from the sand

music to his ears :

dollar coins , gold ear rings

or bottle tops , tin cans —

relics of summers empire .

On and on he goes

in his hand a miniature spade

and a blue bucket of hope

 

  • pic by senila ilinykn from Unsplash

The Alchemist: for those interested in origins

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I wasn’t thinking straight.

I wanted an image.

A wonky shopping cart.

Perfect.

But the poem grew too dark, too heavy

with baggage

way too personal.

I wanted to fictionalize it,

lighten it up.

Then I thought of the pathway

through linear park

with its crazed markings,

the one I had taken a picture of

a year before

the one with the man with the trapezoid head

at its centre.

All  I needed was a poem.

He could write it.

It had to be light but still true

to the original concept

of muzzy thoughts.

It went through ten drafts over eight hours

but I got there

& I was amazed how the mind can transmute

dull matter

into material that almost leaps

off the page.

 

* picture courtesy of Wikimedia Commons