I pull aside the curtain
the hallucinogenic dawn rushes in
a sporidium of colours splatter
against the Winnipeg Fog wall
a bacchanal, a squall
like the hormonal hysterics
of ‘The Notebook’.
- pic courtesy of pinterest
Crack/ Unfiltered
surrealism
Neanderthal
Neanderthal.
You know how you get scrambled eggs, right ?
Well I had scrambled dreams.
I forgot my meds. That was the trouble.
All my dreams were Neanderthal.
Batty, belly up, R Rated.
My Id running amuck.
Skeletons spilling out of the closet.
Onto the sidewalk.
Under the lamp-post
where passersby could gawk.
It was one of those nights.
Well, Are You?
The grin-faced pistachios look up at me from the bowl.
Are you looking at me? I say. You looking at me?
But the dumb pistachios just keep on grinning.
You’re nuts, I say. Nuts !
The Most Selfish Man
You are the most selfish man
in the world,
my Friday friend called me
some years ago.
Whoa! Big call, I said
as he stormed off
with his teacup.
- pic by Wickedly Lovely, pinterest
As I Go Along
I like to make it up as I go along
like a kangaroo, not putting a foot wrong.
Some say I’m flippant, a little shallow
but I’m mellow yellow, baby. quirky as a quark
and when I’m hopping mad, I bark.
*pic courtesy of wikipedia
My Genetic Flaw
Your canal’s very narrow, he says.
Narrow?
Yes, like the Thai tunnel cave divers had to negotiate to get those boys out. Not much sound can get through. There are no cave divers small enough to help it along.
Like that film in the sixties? I say.
Which film is that?
‘Fantastic Voyage’, where a submarine crew are shrunk to microscopic size and injected into the bloodstream of a scientist to repair his brain.
Can’t help you there, he says.
Is it hereditary then?
Quite possible. The left auditory canal is quite large. Can carry a lot of sound.
Maybe that’s why I lean a little to the left, I say.
Politically? he asks.
No, doc. When I walk.
- pic courtesy of Pinterest
How Does That Work?
My mind is a scold.
It calls me sloth,
a lassitudinous layabout.
Is that even a word, I say?
Get off the couch, it says. It’s early afternoon
Attend to your blog.
Your Yorkshire mate puts up three posts
to your one.
Write that poem about airing the sheets.
How they purr like cats as they are stroked
by the sun.
Re-read that article :
‘Should Leopards Be Paid For Their Spots’.
Phone your daughters.
Go see your sister.
Give people their worth.
Go to gym.
Release your inner Thor.
Okay, okay, I grumble
but, in truth, I’m happier
and have loads more energy
when I’m buzzing around
like a gingery bee.
How does that work?
Taking Over
You’re taking over, she says.
Am I? I say. I didn’t know that.
You men are all the same, she says.
I go away and think about it.
Can one take over without even realizing it?
Did Alexander the Great conquer all those kingdoms without
even being aware of it?
Did Genghis Khan?
Did these warrior leaders perform their actions with sleight-of-hand
fooling even themselves?
Take over? Who? Me?
I talk to my therapist who is mightily amused at the very notion.
She said what? Who? You?
I take a good look in the mirror as I pass by.
Ummm. My tentacles do seem to have grown longer.
pic by pinterest. Andrei-Pervukhin on DeviantArt
That Man Looks Like You
That man looks like you, she says, as we pull up near a block of shops.
So he does, I say, having a good squiz.
Only he’s got more hair, she smiles, and less of a paunch.
Go easy, I say.
And look he’s going into the same shop you plan to go into.
Saves me going in, I chuckle. Hope he buys what I want to buy.
Only a minute passes and he comes out carrying a shopping bag.
Let’s see where he lives, she says. Could be fun.
So we follow his car down Pridham and Plymouth past the long Covid Testing queues.
Hello, I say, he’s pulled up outside your place. And he’s marching to the front door. Like he owns the place.
Saves you coming in, she says.
So I let her out and drive away in my little blue Subaru, scratching my cerebrals.
A Magnificent Lockdown
I almost tread on this fuzzy little chap on the sidewalk, out for a stroll, soaking up the mid-winter sun.
How’s it hanging? he asks.
Oh , you know; not bad.
He looks up. You out of lockdown yet?
Almost, I say, one day to go but we’re allowed to walk. How about you?
I’m about to enter the biggest lockdown of all, he says in a tone half way between excitement and trepidation.
Wow! I say. Really?
Yes, he says, metamorphosis. You heard of it?
Why, yes. It sounds magical.
Up to 14 days, he says. No food. No visitations. Reckon you could handle it?
If I could turn into something light, winged and beautiful, like a butterfly, I’d give it a go.
You humans can’t have everything, you know.
I nod my head sagely.
True, I say, true. Well, anyway, have a good …. metamorphosis, and off he trundles on his way, giving me the thumbs up, a tricky thing for a caterpillar. Such a clever chap.
John Malone 