Unstable Cliffs, the sign reads. Stay Clear.
And I think of the unstable Cliffs I have known:
The deputy that has a meltdown whenever I call in sick:
my cousin’s boyfriend who punches holes in the wall
when he is denied,
and the glue-sniffing Cliff I taught in Year 11 who fell asleep
on the tracks coming home from a party and was run over by a train.
They should have come with warnings too.
You need a hard hat
a hard hat to go in
dismantling the enigma of existence
is a dangerous thing
the ceiling may collapse on you
the walls cave in
punishing your arrogance
the plumbing dislodge spewing
its putrescence over you.
You’ve messed with the masonry.
You need a hard hat
a hard hat to go in
to write poetry
*photo from Pinterest by Kristopher King
I go down the shop to buy a packet of cigs for a friend. I tell the cashier the brand.
What colour? she says. Blue, gold or red?
I dunno, I say. The one with Bryan on the packet.
Who’s Bryan?
The poster boy of lung cancer. On the rack of his deathbed. Skin sick as pus, emaciated, eyes wild, pleading.
Sounds terrible, she says.
It is. Cancer porn. Spookier than anything you’ll see on Halloween.
We got a note from the young couple across the road
telling [ warning? ] us that they were holding a birthday bash
that day starting at two and going past midnight.
And, no, we were not invited.
We braced ourselves for the worst.
A few cars appeared around six, the last time we checked.
We did hear a car door slam at nine
& some intemperate laughter on the front porch a little later
& that was it.
No hordes of SUV’s. no gate crashers, no raised voices,
no loud thumping music.& no need to call the number
I set aside for the cops.
The Bacchanalia clearly hadn’t arrived.
We went to bed a little disappointed.
My mother always warned me about loose women
to avoid them at all costs.
But what about loose lemons?
That’s a whole new ball game.
And I need one for my fish tonight.
Do I risk it?
And what about loose thoughts?
Isn’t that where creativity comes from,
thoughts that amble along like a jazz tune that’s lost its way?
I posted a poem last night about an invisible dog
that turned out to be a bit of a lemon.
Talking of which….
I’ll take one loose lemon, I say to the check-out girl,
and o, excuse the loose change.
You don’t know what’s coming down the pike.
No one does.
Covid-19 showed that.
Now there are rumours of something else.
It doesn’t have a face or name
but the word ‘China’ is often invoked.
But no one knows.
But something is coming.
You can see its shadow.
Hear its footsteps.
Feel it breathing down yr neck.
And I feel like the poet Mark Strand
who always saw something coming down the pike
which is why he always slept, he says,
with one eye open.
I am lying in bed waiting for the Apocalypse.
It is due fifteen minutes after midday.
We have been told these things before.
What do they know?
It is sunny outside though clouds are building.
There’s a piffle of a breeze rustling the bush outside my window though I notice it is picking up.
Could there be something in it?
Damn. There’s someone on the phone.
It’s Emily from my insurance company calling from interstate about a failed payment.
I question some details.
Just bear with me a moment, she says, as she scurries off to her superiors.
Don’t be long, I say. The Apocalypse is near.
Pardon?
The Apocalypse’
I’ll put you on hold, she says.
Dogs whine, doors clatter, the sky darkens.
Just then ADT Security phones.
What is wrong with you people? Don’t you know the Apocalypse is nigh?
Silence.
I go out to the verge, bring in the bins, look around. The winds have dropped.
All quiet on the western front.
Gus, the Jack Russel next door, barks at my presence.
It’s okay, buddy. It’s only me. And anyway it’s been postponed.
What has? it barks.
The Apocalypse.
Again?
Yes, again.
What the %$%&#.
Calm your farm, buddy. We get to live another day.
I go inside, wait for the next alert.
Proceed With Caution, the sign said
But I proceeded anyway
& came upon a cat
On the cold hillside
Its fur
Damp with dew
Its head
Helmeted in cling wrap
& wished the hell I hadn’t
The wine had been sitting in the glass
for three hot days
when I poured it
down
the
sink
& saw the stain
it left
on the side:
a sigil
a rune-like mark
Of some sort,
representing
Angel or demon,
Benediction
Or curse?
The drinker’s version of ‘the writing
on the wall’?
A message from another world?
I look at it long
Unsettled.
Perplexed.
what does it look like to you?
Unstable Cliffs, the sign read. Extreme Danger. Stay Clear.
And I thought of the unstable Cliffs I had known:
The deputy that barked at me when I called in sick,
My cousin’s boyfriend who punched holes in the wall
Whenever he was denied,
And the glue-sniffing Cliff I taught in Year 11 who fell asleep
On the tracks and was run over by a train.
They should have come with warnings too.
John Malone 