Ride of the Valkyrie.
i.
Yes
the Wagnerian piece
how
it inspires great thoughts
the
middle ground of fantasy
the
ride of the heathens
borne
on the wind from the north
creating
merry hell in Teutonia
the
black horses draped
in sheet
clothe of homespun
to protect
from spear and sword
man
and woman fight aside
their
power in numbers
in the
tempo of their song
those
Teutons who stand and fight
meet
a hailing banshee, Celts
borne
from the wind of Brinhildar
the
song of wolf maidens
peels
the atmosphere, another slain
and
put in the hands of Odin
Skuld
and alikeness’s are many
they
too battling the foe, the women
of the
great lord Odin, carried of to war
then
placed between the sacrificial mound
the
captured soldiers of battle, war torn
and
unwary, cast to his bidding.
ii.
I listen
to Opera on the radio
the
songs of the tenors and sopranos,
the
baritone and mezzo, the chorus
Wagner’s
work drawing out my German side
my deep
baritone echoing the strong vocals
the
urgency of the music blindingly strong
the
tales from long ago, ringing in modern ears
brought
to life with vocal precision
the
horse, the warrior, the Valkyrie
all
have their say in a piece of music
rich
in temperament, long on wealth
the
voices entreating response with a beating heart.
Silent Sentinels
I wake
each morning,
a nervous
smokers cough to start,
check
the windows for late rains,
stormful
breezes wafting,
see
the stands of Conifers,
Karaka
and Kowhai
gently
rocking in an air
of utter
disdainment.
The
flight of Fantail and Blackbird
the
dance of Sparrow and Tomtit,
the
gentle passage
of Monarch
Butterfly
across
my errant vision,
the
Dance of Nature
watched
by the Two Sentinels,
Woodland
Oak and Prime Totara
stand
pride of place
staunch
guardians
of nests
within
with
fruit without
ever
present
ever
watchful.
I park
my carcass on my seat,
switch
off Nature as I compose,
the
reality, a screen and keyboard
neither
flighty or staunch
both
an arms throw away
unlike
the trees and birds
always
a goodly distance
down
the evolution track.
Tomorrow
I will do the same,
though
one fears
with
autumn finally here,
we may
be in for a few surprises,
a cold
night here,
the
birds gone to roost,
the
trees disrobing for the chill.
Tomorrow,
the sentinels will stand and stare
not
knowing what it is they are guarding,
null
of thought, null of feeling, just null
sadly
though, they wither
but
spring back into life down track
to help
me keep reality in check
to soothe
aching minds and wings and twigs.
Breakfast at Stephanie’s
The crackle of crisp bacon
many splatters of fried corn fritters
the chop chop of a finely diced onion
a delicate carving of an over ripe tomato
the turning over of the fritters
a gurgle of fresh milk
sounds of breakfast
the family milling around
the taste of food consumed with ease
fresh cream on cereal called Skippy,
the pop of toast from the toaster
knives spreading Marmite
She whistles as she works
wispy cool air pervades the room
a dog outside whines for the cooking odours
a mess on completion, husband and kids gone
the dogs getting scraps, the cat cream
the sink a litany of overuse.
Tableau Art
The
last drop of wine
dribbles
from a disturbed tumbler
etches
stereotypic images
on a
floor much used to art.
A foot
runs through
new
art
a piece
upon reflection
mirrors
Gauguin’s best
the
images spread around the room
a psychiatrists
ink blot
unwary
drinkers
oblivious
to their standing,
and
so the beast of Red Wine
encompasses
all around it
but
none the better
the
dribbles on the tableau
where
idle fingers sketch a romance scene
the
cherished pinky dotting I’s
crossing
legs and fingers
for
the right Mr Right to notice
and
care.
Dead Mans Journey
I raced
my car at 180 kilometres per hour
down
a steep hill, up the staple slope,
I raced
like the wind had no power
all
the effort in the act of planting boot,
I sped
along the Western Access roadway
my Escort
Sport 1600cc sports car
racing
like the howling banshees of Eire
spread
across the volcanic plains of home,
I careened
at break neck speed past fields
past
tall volcanoes long silent and ready,
past
waiting police cars geared to chase
past
the timelessness of an errant desert,
I swung
the nose, pointing down the highway,
the
speed stretching to 200 kilometres per hour
stopped
briefly for a refill, car and driver
and
back on the journey to hell, home
I glided
like an F1-11 fighter, honed to kill
to disintegrate
on impact, to cause havoc
the
last vestige of rubber plying the road
four
and a half hours from Auckland to Mum,
I drove
with extreme car and speed, home
the
streets with children crossing, old folk too
a place
where the dreaded cops lived in droves
a place
where my parents knew everyone.
To this
day, both well buried, they knew not
the
devil may care freedom of my High Road,
though
up there or down wherever they know
and
to date I drive no more, lived life once.
Foretelling
I see
the
Beijing Olympics
a political
hot potato
I see
WWIII
Iran claiming Iraq
I see
the US hamstrung
I see
the
Arabian Sea
drowning
in Arabic blood
I see
a US recession
dragging
all behind it
I see
the
European Parliament
taking
a stronger hand
I see
Japan’s industries
dying
to the
sound of no petroleum
I see
my Mother
and Father
both
long dead, crying
I see
a new
me, a new hope
an old
way of changing times,
I see
my children’s
future
still
plenty of good
I see
the
wars of an errant world
capitulation
a Buzz word.
I see
from
my window to the trees
life’s
mysteries still playing.
I see
the
News on TV no more
the
sound of the radio comforting,
I see
that
the downhill slide
will
happen this year, 50!!
I see
what
a momentous occasion that will be
so
many times I could have joined my parents.
What has Dying got to do with it.
I champion
Euthanasia
the
right to choose
the
right to die
in ones
own time.
I see
the elderly marking time
and
wonder,
“do
they think about it”
yes,
an interesting thought
Today
a daughter was jailed
for
helping her cancer ridden mother
move
on from this cruel planet
her
fate in the hands of Justice
But
there is no justice
in suffering
pain daily,
in being
a frail shade
of your
former self,
there
is not dignity
in letting
friends and family
worry
about when, not if
no dignity
in dying publicly
fought
the urge to berate folks
if they
don’t understand
they’ll
never be capable of knowing
yes,
count the elderly,
I have
this pact with God
should
he inflict cancer upon me
I shall
have the right to shorten
the
blow that will affect most,
I champion
Euthanasia
because
I know there is a chance
I too
will get cancer, it runs
in a
family not capable of caring.
How Education isn’t the key to Life
I promised
my daughter
I’d
do something to make her proud,
she
smiled
said
“Dad, I’m already proud”
I smiled
too and left it at that.
The Rafter Series 7
i.
She
leapt to attention
made
a quick salute
realised
the Officer
neither
cared or noticed
she
let her arm
trace
a “fuck you”
around
a dissipating innuendo.
ii.
The
pump’s busy
petrol
awaiting a hot car
both
require each other
to go
fast and fly
seven
drunken youths
taking
a devil route home.
iii.
We both
kissed each other
as only
two people can
with
longing,
cherished
feelings
the
passion in our after-breaths,
lady
luck shines once
in a
love torn world.
iv.
Railway
wagons rolled ever eastward,
the
long journey in often cold winds
biting
through cattle wagons
long
in human suffering,
yet
those that were a part
stood
still and said it didn’t happen
said
the Jews were happy with their lot.
De Nile
is a river of pain.
v.
I make
paper mache figurines
old
newspapers, a bit of glue
(not
the kind you sniff)
applied
application
tenacity
the order of time,
yesterdays
figures
already
put to use;
the
fire roars hot.
Reflections on Life in Bold Type
In my
childhood, I’d go to the river, and skip stones. I’d stand on one
bank too, and try and throw a stone across the river. I tried this until one
I succeeded. I didn’t need to throw any more, but still had to skip to
see if I could break my Father’s family record. One day he died and I had
no need to chase his record. I have daughters now, and neither have been to the
river to skip stones.
Legacy
is endearment
the
chance to pass down
a recall
of ancestry
a play
with real life
to counter
negative things,
the
pace of life
dictated
by
the
things we do daily.
My brother’s
in love with his wife
she’s
a veritable witch
does
that make him
Dragon
master?
or just
a lucky soul,
that’s
happy with his life,
does
it make him greater than I
greater
than the cosmos?
I took
my family for a short bush walk. The place was a motel/camp called Sapphire Springs. It had to be lucky, my wife’s birthstone was Sapphire. We walked for about two hours and crossed little streams (I didn’t skip stones) and climbed small
hills. We all enjoyed the twitter of wild birds, the patter of feet on undergrowth,
the splash of dirty shoes in puddles, the aroma of old forest and trees meant to impress.
I made
my bed every night
the
same way as I made it I the morning
an attempt
to engender order
and
regularity,
the
sheets crumpled
pillow
puffed out
the
dust mites crawling.
Sadly
I was divorced
I found
this enchanting
Me –
divorced
ever
the careful Father
ever
the happy husband
Happy
Ever After
shot
to pieces by a mental disorder,
I was
happy with my life
now
I’m sad
and
happy
and
joyful
but
by heck I miss my family.
We made
it to the five mile bridge, Sally and I. She a consummate walker, me a doodler,
just making the distance. In my youth I
would have run that distance in the blink of an eye, but now my youth has deserted me, left me for the decay of oldish age. My running is now in my fingertips, the need to write poetry and short fiction to
sate my existence. I made an acrostic up the other day.
O –
on
L –
last
D –
days
and
realised if I put any letter at the beginning I change the effect of the words. I
liked BOLD – Bloody Oranges Lack Desire. I thought again about going down
to the river and to see if I could throw a stone across it. If not, then I’m
a kid again, regressing. I’d also be so bold enough to skip stones again,
to try and break Dad’s record (in my dreams).
The Sound of Easy Street
(or a Chorus Cacophony)
He’s
a bright kid
barely
seven
sees
a 12 inch
polythene
pipe
on a
bare street
in Hoboken.
Picks
it up
blows
through one end
no noise
just
the whoosh
of air
passing through
turns
it around
blows
again
a higher
resonance
but
still noiseless.
He takes
it home
goes
to his Fathers Toolbox
gets
the auger out
the
right bit
drills
a series of holes
so fingers
can play,
takes
the piece
“Pipealene”
he calls it
blows
again
still
a sound of whistling air,
ruffles
around in the garage
finds
something to fit the end
drills
out a mouthpiece
inserts
it in the cavity
of a
pipe ready to play
claps
his hands,
and
blows hard
too
hard
wrestles
with his breath
purses
his tongue
and
voila
Peter
Pan.
See
Peter and the magic polythene pipe
see
the rats from the neighbourhood
see
what invention and desire can do.
North Riding Bus Shelter
They
cue for hours, ladies in Pink tights,
children
blessed with the clothing of winter,
Fathers
without the car, DUI.
The
bus comes Red and Yellow
a taxi
cab with forty seats
and
a place to park mothers prams,
The
Number Seven takes us all the way into town,
the
Number Six drives by the Supermarkets
where
all manner of society detrain.
Past
the Gothic Cathedrals of downtown
the
towers of Light refracted beaming down
the
rank territory of the Number Three.
Passengers
come, they go, they sit, they stand,
they
ogle if old gentlemen, tut tut if elderly Ma’ams,
the
children keep their mouths shut, just because,
The
Number Two regularly breaks down
the
roads difficult to negotiate, Chinatown
the
pace of life fostered in Wonton Shops,
Sadly
I await the Number Thirteen Bus
the
bus to Hell, the ride even nastier,
yet
each day, I go to Hell and Back, survivor.
Wild Bean Café
A
stop on the Main Highway
at a
BP station
in a
Holy Hell
named
Taihape.
Hot
food, hotter coffee
a caffeine
fix
for
the long drive
to revive
flagging
spirits.
Clientele
a cross section
skinny
pink girl
old
guy with wispy goatee
staff
flat tack
in serving
and
counting the money.
A not
so cold night
but
travellers aplenty
all
hungry, thirsty
all
in need of a fix
to keep
tired eyes open.
Behind
us the Wild Bean diminishes
the
hot coffee sitting well
in a
stomach
happy
for a pie too.
The Dangers of Lust
The
temperature was hot, very high on a scale meant to measure mediocrity. The summer
plants sheltered with secretions, the spring plants long burnt off and dead. The
rising damp in houses down Dreadhill Drive reminiscent
of the Titanic taking on water, though the cool ice of that Berg would be welcome now.
It takes
two to tango
thrown
pans and vases
pointing
to a dispute,
was
it the man the night before
or his
errant flippant remarks
perhaps
the bottle of vodka emptied
where
two meet with a fiery outburst.
The
kitchen resembles a bomb site
dishes
stacked willy nilly, haphazardly
the
left over food dripping on a floor
long
in need of cleaning.
Orange
juice from the vodka slammers
pools
in dribble marks across it
to a
refrigerator emptied of TV dinners.
Yes,
the insipid heat, the tempers fraying, the plants all dying off, not being watered.
The house next door has a green lawn, floral displays in fine fettle, all the regalia of care and attention. The hangover looks out the window at it, and cringes, dives back into the bed in search of another bottle. ‘Thank fuck the kids have gone,’ she thinks, ‘they’d never
believe it.’
Her
latest boyfriend snores on a sofa
his
large feet, too large perhaps,
extends
over the arm, his toenails uncut,
the
remnants of the kitchen walk still clinging
to soles
used to regular cleaning,
She
wanders in, naked as a bald badger
her
Brazilian flashing, her pierced belly button
her
heavy makeup, all point to youth,
a youth
she never had, her first child at seventeen,
now
in her early forties, fortified
garish
and gaunt, smiling and not
tickles
the bare foot, another romp
before
he’s packed off for the day.
The
neighbours never talk. There is a perception she is a whore, the many men that
come and go, that she’s a self made prostitute. She doesn’t work,
or has never been seen to. Even in winter the comings and goings match summers
heat. The lash of a bullwhip in one house suggests S&M could be a possibility,
to get the bitch into shape. No that’s too extreme, still George at 356
practices everyday, having been one of her visitors many moons ago. He hallucinates.
They
drive hard on the couch,
her
sweat mingling with his,
the
sudden fierce thrusts,
mingling
with the smell of decay,
her
kitchen fermenting
the
lounge retching
a bedroom
with week old sheets.
She
farewells him, he says tonight
she
say “I doubt it”, and laughs
yes
she’s in charge, her destiny
she
smiles as she sees the lotto ticket
pride
of place in a disheveled sitting room,
the
winning ticket, been two years now,
too
many times the children haven’t visited
happy
to get a share, but not to share her life
those
many days where loneliness
is killed
by bars and clubs, and men
maybe
the odd boy if he’s willing.
They
all look at her place. They knew she won, and are not pleased to have her as
a neighbour. The children see things and ask awkward questions. Most tell the truth, a lonely witch, a scion on society, a blotch of misread makeup as she wanders in and
out in her own time. The taxis are often, her and her men. She doesn’t drive now, too many DUI’s. The Porsche
in the garage a toy for her son to play with if and when he comes. Sadly for her, and the neighbours, not too often, she gets
the cleaners and gardeners in when family are due.
The
shower, relief, sensational
the
hot on a sweaty back
nipples
aching from a good time
soothed
by water flowing,
the
pounding offering an ache
‘nevermind’
she thinks
‘tomorrow
another stud
to soothe
her appetite.’
The
police were called
the
noise of glass breaking
bottles
thrown at mirrors and paintings
the
sound of a running vacuum
being
flung in the kitchen
smashing
dishes and glasses;
they
packed her away
off
for psychiatric assessment.
Loneliness
is a silent mind killer.
The Rafter Series 8
i.
Women
who think they can multitask
should
decide whether a dying cellphone
or an
automobile crash
take
precedence.
ii.
The
Vatican Army
is a
peace loving outfit
designed
to look silly
so invading
armies
laugh
themselves to death.
iii.
Vivaldi’s
Four Seasons
such
a lovely suite of music
mix
in Tchaikovsky’s’ Swan Lake
and
you have beauty in tune.
iv.
The
bravest of men and women
assail
the winter chill
climb
peaks of Ice
to get
the warm afterglow
of a
mountain well climbed.
Chickenshits
grovel in their own inadequacies.
v.
We made
it two o’clock,
the
meeting
to iron
out tax rebates
and
any money due me;
The
Government always wins.
Mortified Manuscripts
I tasted
the deepest regret
a taste
similar to hot onions
or chili
peppers roasted
I sensed
the move from Right to Wrong
as a
parting shot misfires
the
target missed, on the move,
As
the Eiffel Tower reigns over Paris
so do
doughnuts on a cops beat
the
taste of hastily eaten fare
those
seven second moments
when
sex dissolves laughter
the
lasting relationship – two years,
Da Vinci
invented many things before his time
a bit
like Martha Davis reinventing cooking
the
last drops of summer rain signify winter.
I paste
topics to a bulletin board for comment
similar
to chopping wood with a blunt axe,
days
when simplicity is replaced by luck.
We wander
the realm of Journeymen
explorers
of local content,
the
hill behind Macy’s attainable.
The
life of Brian Dougherty very Irish,
his
Celtic brogue, his lilting Catholicism,
the
sounds of Belfast emanate from his home,
Suddenly
all life is wrung out, hung out to dry,
to capture
sunshine and warm zephyr’s
giving
new life to old clothing, zest to the wearer.
One day in a Ward
We paced
the floor, you heavily pregnant
me with
nails shorter than they were this morning
the
moment drawing near, encapsulation
when
waters break and the dam bursts free
I see
the head, pass words of condolences
help
you by blowing on your face, your arms
the
fighter in you saying Birth, the process slow
the
body appears, then legs, then feet
the
mid wife smacks Amy Nicole’s backside
a centuries
old cry echoes through the room
the
sound of another life bursting forth
the
first cuddle, fresh and clean, memory.
You
make it sound so sweet, forgotten
the
hours of pain and curses, sweat
yes
they mop your brow to freshen you up
to be
able to hold your baby, our joy,
This
year that baby is twenty one years old
should
I show her this poem I wonder
a tribute
to her health, her vitality
her
mother who gave so much for her?
Fifty Two Percent
Today’s rant.
That’s
how I rate as a poet
fifty
two miserable percent
I know
my work is better
than
others I’ve helped
but
bloody fifty two percent
the
class average was sixty two,
Yet
I don’t sit here mulling it over
I know
my portfolio two is worth more
the
standard of poetry greater
than
a lot of those I’ve helped
yet
yes, fifty two does irk
I look
at my work submitted
and
rejoice a seventy five at least
so I’ve
fallen a little short, teeth gritted
for
the long battle ahead with academia,
(what
the hell would they know?)
If I
had a bottle of Whiskey
tomorrow
it’d be bone dry.
Today’s Poem
In places
I dive
deep
to pull
wide
eyes
out
from
staunch
sockets,
to raise
a broomstick
figurine
deft
of touch
class
of tuft
ruffled
to ensure
green
grass
swims
in a
solid
westerly
breeze.
Sunflowers
wilt!
People Watching
I’m
an inveterate people watcher. I look at how people dress for their standing in
Life. I see that sometimes people overdress, their perceived standing only perceived. I watch how people walk, to discern handicaps or imponderables, concepts of right
and wrong spring forth too, does someone look right, and what’s wrong if they don’t.
The
dead come out at night
reclaim
the dark streets
left
vacant of chatty school kids,
the
howls of laughter reminiscent
of squealing
tyres and doughnuts
(not
the kind cops on the beat devour)
no doughnuts
leaving ghost trails
of black
on pavement surfaces.
I see
mothers and children too young for school, shopping in haste before the next downpour flourishes. I see the elderly spinster in her motorized buggy crossing the road too far down from the zebra crossing,
dodging traffic and maddened drivers. I espy the scruffy cur digging for scraps,
his mangy fur dank from years of abuse.
The
Night riders with money to burn
and
gas to guzzle,
racing
down Broadway
early
in the morning
stretching
rubberized skid marks
to impossible
lengths,
leaving
watching fillies aghast
at the
audacity of the young ones.
The
ghosts of Night, screaming
in bedrooms
dark with fear,
night
sweats, nightmares
night
the realm of the doomsayers,
parents
too busy making love
to help
a mercilessly lost child.
I watch
outside the Supermarket, the long limbs of the sexy girls, the short limbs of the elderly, the languid looks of frazzled mothers,
uncaring fathers, noisy kids. I remember those days when I was one of the above,
and now appreciate what fine hunters Mothers have become, and what terrible waste of time fathers have become. I think of
the Black Widow syndrome, if only the mother could kill the father of her children and devour him for the daily groceries.
Late
at night, love churns
in bars,
in cars, in scars
the
battle cry of the new millennium happening everywhere.
Give
me your baby Boy
so we
can become old
and
gracefully ancient
so we
can walk, me ahead,
you
two paces behind.
The
last of the ghosts settle for the night
I see
on my Nannies tombstone a eulogy
“life
is meant to be enjoyed, as is death”
I think
they’ve forgotten her, I haven’t.
Yes,
I watch all people, and in them each I find a little of my own life, wondering too if I’ll be the daredevil Granny on
a scooter, no longer wanting to walk two paces back from the Black Widow, happy to stand and stare (yes sometimes gawk) and
to think that mangy dog was me for a few days in 2005. I know the long legs are
history, and the burn outs to impress the young lovelies, but I always have my eyes, my mind, and always as ever these days,
a poetry pen with which to write about it all. The ghosts are the empty pens
I would have had had it not been for the PC and internet.
A Puff of Wind
We sailed
yachts, striking white,
sails
fluttering in a summers breeze,
the
spinnaker filled yet fluffy,
the
gibe to port to win the race
and
another to starboard,
to gain
an untenable advantage,
We chased
the teethy dragon,
to outstrip
the many sailing craft behind,
the
bow of “Fantail” a hairs breadth astern,
the
gates of the finishing post
draw
closer with each puff of a dying wind,
the
spinnaker flicks and then refills,
enough
energy to push our boat
a little
further in front, to a meritorious win,
we drop
sails and stow away, another race run.
What’s on your Desktop
I never
really look at my Desktop Icons
I know
Word and Excel live there,
perhaps
Yahoo IM and MSN Messenger
The
Connect to Internet thingy is there too
along
with Adobe 8.0, and a Print Icon
but
what else is on my Desktop, on yours?
I’ll
have a look, hmmm be patient please,
Oh yeah
MS PowerPoint and MS Access,
Batch
Thumbs imaging resizer, AD-Aware
Avast
Anti Virus and InterVideo Win DVD,
and
now a regular potpourri of software
hardly
used, USB Handsfree and Solitaire,
not
to mention Hearts and Spider Solitaire,
Windows
Media Player and CCleaner,
iP2000
Photo Application with a User Guide,
and
now other less used programmes,
Recycle
Bin and My Computer, Xtra,
My Documents
and Shortcut to FP30.
Since
starting my poetry course,
only
the anti virus software and Ad Aware
and
CCleaner have been used with vigour.
Time, a silent collusion.
We look
at clocks
tossing
aside the minutes
the
past once the now
consigned
now to history books
or a
poets ruthless tableau.
The
wishing well in the mall,
collector
of children’s pennies,
memories
of wishes
pushed
aside for Time to rule,
the
Now lost to the disappearing past.
The
lifeblood of living
the
ticking of an errant heart
the
pulse of blood
through
distended veins,
marking
the passage of life.
Our
hearts beating as one
erroneously
in cases, tripping
the
exodus of happenings
awake
to the possibility
of a
clock telling the future.
Today,
in collusion with Father
we roasted
marshmallows
melted
moments as memories,
the
collector of seconds ticking by
the
hand moving clockwise.
Hey Big Bullies
It was
a busy day today,
started
with Gina the Bus Driver
kindly
pointing out my zip was down
I made
my way to the middle of the bus
sat
with an elderly gentleman
who
sat picking his nose all the way to town.
I passed
a paddock with seven bulls in it
god
you could smell the testosterone,
I counted
seven, there could have been more.
The
hills in the distance
showed
a fresh dump of snow,
hence
the reason for two days of winter (in autumn),
I had
a Hearing Voices Workshop to attend to,
made
it in time, yes made sure the door was shut,
set
about setting up before the others arrived.
I snuck
a quick ciggy, as you do
spoke
to Dean (yeah he smoked too)
we readied
each other for the 3 hours to follow,
Off
the cuff, I’d say the girls arrived (and Kerry)
and
set about changing the room from what we had done
no sweat
off our backs, we smiled.
The
victims arrived to be enlightened,
and
the workshop began, me speaking
telling
them of my life with a mental illness,
what
it means to be a voice hearer, implications,
ramifications,
conflagrations, deliberations,
how
answering back is hazardous.
Pretty
much three hours later, drained
ready
to pack up, lunch first – supplied,
then
into the debrief, home soon, another bus,
I stepped
on the bus, a new driver, Aaron
he didn’t
dare look at my crotch, bullish man,
yes
counted the bulls again, still seven.
I got
home, a cup of coffee, a couple of smokes,
passing
the time with the other “inmates”
winding
down (looking at my crutch -sensing testosterone)
Writing Mark Twain, by Huck Finn
I wandered
the streets meeting lodgers
hopeless
codgers, the Artful Dodger
I met
Mark Twain again and again
this
time Huck Finn was on the train.
I paced
the Maternity ward afraid of life
more
afraid of a baby bearing wife,
I saw
Emily Bronte write a book of love
saw
the pictures, poses, scores from above.
I snail
mailed you a love letter for a laugh
the
dialogue monotonal, crying in the bath
pulling
legs stiff from disuse, abuse, obtuse,
ladies
legs with cellulite a sign of life’s refuse.
I wandered
free in the storm, tossed, toiled
the
first thing a Dad does, the nappy soiled,
a piece
of time, chimed, rhymed, sublime
the
necessities of life like a mountain climbed.
I called
out to the wind, wind, find, grind
the
last days at Brackenworst gone behind,
Ladies
dancing in windows, pillows, prose
the
poems of writers lost like water from a hose.
Drip,
drip, drop, drop, the whole shebang flops,
the
daisies in the garden yellow, mellow, STOP!
The
poem’s not about anything tangible, bull
a revision
says this poet has to go back to school.
What’s Love got to do with Life?
You
should be ashamed
calling
me a liar and a cheat
I didn’t
even go with her
You
have this argument everytime
I say
hello to a natural blonde
and
you assume my come hither eyes
are
working overtime.
You
spill too much champagne
your
gut rotting with each drink
and
once again you accuse me of cheating,
Too
polite to correct your mind
I sally
forth and teach you a lesson
take
you out to a steak eatery
make
you quaff down red meat
and
once again, your drinking causes problems
this
time I’ve ogled the waitress
pinched
her cute behind, and winked
Of course
I’m a cheat, I do these things
like
I don’t love you or anything, I do
just
hate it when you call me a cad.
Today
I took my secretary to lunch
I rang
and told you, you screamed
“what
about me, you bastard” you cried
My point
of placating fell on deaf ears,
so I
booked a motel room, and yes
I did
it, I cheated, just to feel what it’s like,
No guilt,
no recriminations, I told you too
you
just scoffed, as if the thought was incomprehensible,
you
knew I was lying, I knew I wasn’t.
Yesterday,
me and Susie, the secretary
moved
into a flat, the relationship sweet,
no more
accusations, no biting alcoholism,
just
simple sex, simple cuddles, simplicity
no cheating
either, though this is just the beginning,
I don’t
love her, I don’t love you either, get it?
Ones Last Breath
It was
like, oh I don’t know,
ten
camels in procession
kicking
up dust,
coats
swallowed in sand
Raspy
as a saw on wood
the
continual hacking
a sound
reminiscent
of old
hickory burning.
The
heave of a swollen chest
like
a ship against the swell
the
strain showing on every rivet,
past
meeting present, swollen.
I guess
if it needs description
the
sound of reeds in the wind
an oboe
in a full orchestra
outnumbered
by volume.
Me and
my chesty cough
chugging
away, phlegm aplenty
the
spittoon filled to overflowing,
yes
camel shit in abundance.