I barfed off and on last night
but my heart wasn’t in it.
If you are going to barf —
‘barf’ is a much nicer word than ‘vomit’ –
you’ve got to be committed,
not lackadaisical
like the time I went to the doctor
for anti-depressants and was refused
because ‘you are not depressed enough’.
I can’t give myself wholeheartedly
to anything, it seems.
‘Except your writing’,
my ex told me.
‘Except your writing’.
I want one of these
so I can hoon around the street
like old Frank does on his,
zip around the shopping centre
when Security’s not looking.
I will have to save up though,
maybe trade in the car
but it’s a beauty,
a rhino of a Gopher,
the Humvee of mobility scooters,
a ‘chick magnet’ for seniors.
Yee Ha !
Oooops. Looks like I turned the heater off prematurely.
I seem to make a habit of it.
Maybe because I was born prematurely.
I don’t finish novels either.
or most short stories.
Even half my poems I bail out from.
Relationships too.
I have meltdowns. Walkouts.
But hey ! I have three kids.
Nothing premature there.
And I’m still with my gal.
Maybe I can finally say, I’m over it.
But that might be a little premature.
I’m on my own again.
My partner’s hit the sack.
The cat’s snuggled up in her basket.
Tiffany’s asleep in the tank, light out.
Even the mozzies have called it a day..
There’s nothing on TV.
Perhaps someone will text. Someone …
Is this what it’s going to be like?
Who has written these poems ?
I say
as I browse through the pages
of this commonplace book.
I have neglected to name their authors.
There’s one about
Tennessee Fainting Goats
which calls to mind
my ‘Cows in a Paddock’ ;
another about women in a junkshop staring through a window
at the rain
‘where a taxi as yellow as a forsythia
is turning a corner’,
and a snippet about snow over Xmas and New Year
hanging around long after
‘like the drunk at the bar
who needs to go home’
Hmmmm.
Could any of these be mine?
But the one about the fortune cookie is Ed’s.
It’s got his mark all over it.
But the others? I just don’t know.
Could I be that good?
I don’t think so.
You are the gin
in gin ‘n’ tonic,
the rum
in
bundy and coke;
the abracadabra that transforms,
the fruity little pellets
that add
zest and zing
to oats
that put the sing
in snap, crackle, ‘n’ pop,
feisty little metaphors
for writing
that needs to lift its lid
let out its Id
roll like a dog
in
the muck and merriment
of language.
Hosannas to sultanas.
*pic courtesy of pinterest
His legs, protruding from baggy shorts,
are thick as pylons.
He walks like a jetty would wade
through water.
He works long hours in a candy store
hunched over his tiny laptop.
Not many customers come in.
Is candy on the nose?
*pic courtesy of Pinterest
He climbs the flight
of stairs
as if he’s playing in
the Aussie Open;
with each step taken
he fist pumps the air;
at the top
his face glows with triumph
As soon as you stand outside someone’s place,
whip out your mobile camera and start taking snaps
of something in the street,
jacaranda flowers, for instance, carpeting the verge,
an ibis making love to a TV aerial,
a drunken, tilting fence,
someone starts singing loudly in a bathroom.
conversations break out in the hallway like a rash.
windows open or close,
to let you know they’re onto you
when all you’re doing is trying to compose a poem.
When did people start growing so suspicious of poets?
John Malone 