A bird flew in my mouth.
I gulped in horror.
If it were a mozzie,
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
What is it about the mouth?
About putting things in it?
I don’t mean food or sexual organs.
I mean items that carry far less charge
Like food or birds.
I wrote a surrealist poem called ‘A Bird Flew in my Mouth’
But could find no appropriate illustration online.
Ditto for ‘What’s Feet Got to do With It?’
About putting one’s foot in one’s mouth.
Two fine poems I cannot post because I can’t find
An appropriate illustration even one I’m willing to pay for.
I approached a few street artists but they weren’t up to it.
I paid them 5 bucks for their efforts.
They were happy with that but I wasn’t.
Let’s be up front. I can’t draw and I can’t post these poems
Without illustrations because who’s going to read them ?
so I’ll just have to write about them:
The poems I have written but can’t post.
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.”
“Things look better from up there,” I say.
“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 ,,,,
You could hear them growling
as they came up the street
bristling with fury
the long angry pair of trousers.
They were rumpled.
They were crumpled.
They had had a bad night.
They did not want to be there.
They were positively scopophobic
but he didn’t get it.
so they squinched his anatomy.
soiled the cuffs.
Had he not noticed?
But they were all he had
So he wore them
Those long angry pair of trousers.
“What are you staring at?”
“We are watching you unravelling.”
“There’s a word for that, a German word like watching people in road accidents”.
“Please don’t get distracted. Continue unravelling.”
“What if I don’t want to?”
“We’ve been watching you. You won’t be able to prevent it.”
They were right. I was like one of those wall-mounted paper towel dispensers.
Once the roll starts unravelling there’s no stopping it and I wasn’t done yet. There was still a metre or more of me to go.
I am reading a book of very strange stories.
One of them is called ‘Falling Awake’.
It is only six sentences long.
Here it is in its entirety:
I have no trouble falling asleep.
I have a lot of trouble falling awake.
Sometimes I sleep ten to twelve hours a day before snailing towards the light.
One day I will fall asleep and not fall awake or fall awake and not fall asleep.
Neither prospect daunts me.
I like adventures; no matter how short.
No one saw it coming. Least of all me. I was happily ensconced in a book when it EXPLODED. Such was its force that it blew the toupee off the man in front of me and propelled the stationary bus in which we were sitting two metres forward. The sneezer himself, a dread locked man in a canary yellow suit, whooshed around the aisle of the bus startling passengers until suitably deflated he flopped beside me flatulent as a whoopee cushion.