Axe Throwing
My daughter has been Axe Throwing with some friends from work.
Apparently it is the new thing.
It’s a bit like darts only more dangerous,
I’ve been hit with a dart in the hand,
Being hit with a hatchet would be a totally different thing.
People are encouraged to bury the hatchet in the target not in each other.
This is not ‘Vikings’.
It looks like fun. I’m thinking of going along.
But I keep thinking of real heads I’d like to bury the hatchet into.
I have always wanted to work in a pencil factory
like Henry David Thoreau.
I could draw inspiration from my work each day,
pencil in appointments with imaginary friends
during coffee breaks or smokos.
Do they still have smokos by the way?
‘The pen is mightier than the sword’ but what about
the pencil? & which one?
2B or not 2B? Hamlet famously dithered just after
he had asked Ophelia [ in an earlier draft of the play ]
to come and look at his etchings and she had refused.
I may not be the sharpest pencil in the box but I still
want to make my mark upon the world.
I saw it advertised in the local rag.
‘Bonsai Show’, it said.
It was a tiny notice. I had to squint to read the details.
The hall was rather tiny.
I squeezed through the entrance almost knocking my head
against several light fittings on my way in.
It looked like a huddle of hobbits around the bonsai which
were unusually tiny.
“They’re not fully grown yet,” a volunteer offered.
Like many of you, I felt like saying but bit my tongue.
The Club President gave a haiku-sized speech for which
we were all grateful.
I mingled for half an hour indulging in the small talk until
refreshments were served.
There were pies, pasties and muffins from the ovens of Lilliput.
“Would you like a short black?” the serving lady asked.
“Any chance of some wine ?” I said.
“Sorry,” she answered, “It’s in very short supply.”
I had had about enough of pint-sized jokes,
and headed out into the big, wide world.
*pic by backyard boss on pinterest
You give me the shits, is perhaps the highest compliment
you can pay a piece of fruit ; moondrop grapes, for instance,
sometimes called ‘sapphires, ’ loosen the bowels and keep
you regular; I like being a regular guy; I like being called
‘a regular guy’ and wonder how they know? Does it show?
Do ‘regular guys’ emit a glow that constipated guys don’t?
Moreover, moondrop grapes are delicious and send you
in the right orbit for the rest of the day.
It is the birthing time of morning
when the hocus-pocus starts:
the cackling of the kookaburras
over the latest joke,
the sardonic salut of the crows
from the peppercorn tree,
the slap of ‘The Sunday Mail’
on the driveway,
and that text from next door:
‘Hey! You awake? Like to come and visit?
Be my Sunday Male’ 🙂
I am about to read a book called ‘The Ninth Crypt’,
A novel I acquired for twenty dollars at the supermarket
But fear I may have made a grave mistake:
Browsing through the blurb I see mention of only
The ninth crypt, all well and good, but what about
The other eight? Perhaps the author is planning prequels
Based on the success of this volume but seeing he is
Now a septuagenarian who came to writing late,
This is most unlikely; perhaps if I bury myself deeply
in the text I shall disinter enough cryptic clues
To keep me happy — but at 800 pages !!! I await
Clarification; in the meantime this tombstone of a novel
Shall stand on my shelf of great unread books.
Don’t go morbid on me, I say.
It’s my mother coming out in you.
At least she walked it off.
Lighten up.
Tap into your jocular vein.
Give your funny bone a bump so it knows it’s alive.
Look at yourself in the mirror. Pull a funny face.
No more ‘Hittites’. Too dark, gloomy.
And no, you’re not putting ‘Icy Innuendoes’ up for another run.
Don’t even think about it.
Lighter stuff. A bit of fluff,
Think Hobbo. Think Don.
With their clown hats on.
Away moroseness. Morbidity.
You’ll be the death of me.
It’s not my kryptonite
my Achilles’ Heel
but I know a man
who would rather risk
a heart attack
than give up black licorice
black licorice
& bechamel sauce
not together
but strips of licorice
& béchamel sauce on flathead,
flounder & blue grenadier.
Why black? I ask. Is it a racial thing?
No, he says. It’s sweeter,
has more of a kick.
But can you kick the habit, I ask.
No, he says. And if I tell the doctor,
he’ll tear strips off me.
Wine, I can understand. Coffee.
Mrs. Kipling’s Salted Caramel Slices
but black licorice?!
How do people end up with such strange addictions?
Halfway through my walk I get this poem in my head.
I’ve got to write it down.
I pick up pace, hurry through the Brickworks Market. Someone surely ….
A stall owner looks up as I go past.
“You got a pen and paper?” I ask. “I’ve got this poem here — [pointing to my head] — I got to write down.”
“Sure,” he says, “do I get my biro back?”
“Of course,” I say. “Do I get to keep the paper?”
He gives a feeble smile.
“What’s yr name?” I say. “Yr first name? I’ll dedicate the poem to you.”
What human being could resist such a grand gesture?
“Costa”, he says in a deadpan voice.
Just then his mobile rings.
It’s his girlfriend. He brightens up. A lascivious smile crosses his lips.
He gives me a wink.
He yabbers on what they’ll get up to tonight while I furiously write. It’s hard to stay focused.
Some of what he says gets in the poem.
He keeps adjusting his crotch.
That gets in the poem too.
Then I sense the dialogue winding down as I stagger to the end of the poem like a runner over the finishing line.
“Here”, I say. “I’m done”,
I’m hoping he’ll ask for a copy or at least a read.
But Costa isn’t interested.
He only wants his biro back.
“No hard feelings”, I say. “This poem’s still dedicated to you”.
And I write his name, Costa, above it in bold letters with a flourish.
But I needn’t have bothered.
The poem’s crap.
John Malone 