**~top~**
I’ve never been partial to girls who swear
It's been said that the essence of poetry is to speak volumes using as few words as possible. Well, who wouldn't take up the challenge to turn that on its head? Back to the early days of flatting with a humungous hangover and an unexpected visit from the new girlfriend complete with mother and aged aunt – shades of Bertie Wooster in here – but unfortunately, no Jeeves in sight.
I’ve never been partial to girls who swear
there can be something rather disconcerting
of a hungover morning
in the act of opening ones front door
in floral print dressing gown and slippers
because normally, you see
said artefact stands resplendent
in satin washable heliotrope
with tarnished
brass like accessories
and they do like accessories
but I digress
today, being the eleventh of august
was
by any stretch of the imagination
an odd sort of morning
and a wednesday to boot
which
while providing sadistic pleasure
in a macabre
bovver boy sort of way
for machiavellian mid-week mutilators
may not be the sort of activity
you share any kind of familiarity with
nor indeed, predilection for
however
being as far removed from a brace of weekends
as a body can reasonably expect to be found
excepting of course
a two week sojourn in birmingham
there can be no apology
for not at least
sampling the endeavour
but I digress
the day
heralding the morning
preceding the little known celebration
of grouse shooting
the glorious twelfth
though I’ve never encountered any evidence
which supports the folklore
last year being inclement in the extreme
is it any wonder
that upon extracting the hitherto
somewhat spartan plank
from its occasionally adhesive orifice
which has more than once
given rise to the observation
that had they
the powers that be
simply come up with a more appropriate
handle
for said surround
such as
non stick door surround
or open easy door frame
then perhaps
a good deal less damage
might have been caused to the atmosphere
through the
spontaneous
venting of spleens
on the occasions
when the surround attempts to
live up to it’s
rather inappropriate
john hancock
but I digress
suffice to say
that upon removing said obstacle
one’s flabber
was ghasted in the extreme
and
while not a blurter by nature
nor indeed inclination
blurting being something that
those people do
it must be admitted
that on this occasion
a blurt did in fact occur
the mental leap between
door jamb
and unexpected girlfriend
being one which
given one’s blood alcohol count
one could not reasonably be expected
to make with any degree
of alacrity
the blurt
in and of itself
would seem a minor inconvenience
a mere trifle
but without the sweetness
or the sherry
actually more of a rhubarb crumble
when one’s aged relic
has mistaken the baking soda for sugar
and one finds oneself
unable to whistle
for several weeks
but I digress
the blurt
while undoubtedly uncouth
can usually be ascribed as
a minor misdemeanour
falling somewhere between
yawning during the lengthy discourse over
which pair of identical court loafers
matches which bum-too-big outfit
and neglecting to walk
on the outside of the footpath
however
add an alcohol level
attempting to topple the dow jones index
coupled with a background of
aged aunt and
puritanical tea-total parents
and one could be forgiven for assuming
that the situation had
plumbed the depths
hit rock bottom so to speak
it’s a little known fact
that blurts and muesli do not mix
especially after an evening which began
as such evenings usually do
sombrely enough with an
analytical foray into the
readiness or unreadiness
of something purported to be
homebrewed apple cider
and that ended with an
edgar allan poe pourri of dreams
such that
a psychoanalyst
had one been available at such short notice
would have immediately
rushed off to enrol
in the local community college sewing classes
to find out the fastest and strongest
method of attaching
two feet of additional length
onto each of the sleeves
of one’s best dress shirt
but I digress
one has to wonder at the
miracles of fate
had someone
perhaps a sunflower seed merchant
or a watermelon pip representative
set the challenge
of vocally propelling a minute projectile
in a precise direction
for say
marketing purposes
with perhaps a year’s supply of product
up for grabs for the lucky winner
one would hardly have been first in line
nor
truth be told
could one reasonably be expected to win
given one’s
spitting history
however
add alcohol
a floral print dressing gown from a previous liaison
and the wide eyed
open mouthed
just in the area
popped by
meet the parents
girlfriend of three weeks
and one’s aim
could not have been truer
it is difficult to comprehend the
consternation
caused by a mere
sunflower seed
granted the speed of delivery was somewhat rapid
and
the cushion of air on which it arrived
was neither
expected
nor palatable
but the flavour of the actual seed itself is fairly mild
and the kernel
must have been somewhat softened
prior to dispatch
one is always at a loss
to pinpoint the exact moment
when such things go irretrievably
belly up
certainly the
freak tonsil bull’s-eye
created a good deal of unexpected noise
with an interesting vibrato adde
d
through said tonsils
swinging like rocky balboa’s speedbag
add to this
an admirable gagging scene
worthy of the entire cast of cats
in their guinness book of records attempt
for simultaneously expelling fur balls
and I’m sure you will agree
that the situation could be termed
precarious
fate indeed has a strange sense of humour
the nosey aged relative
meet the back of gagging girlfriend’s head
was undoubtedly spectacular
but in my opinion
uncalled for
the resultant nasal geyser
leaving me with little option
but to close the door
action and reaction
being something that one is unable to cope with
before lunch
I suppose it’s all for the best
I’ve never been partial to girls who swear
**~top~**
bee-ware
Yes, it truly happened to me – I was playing up the back of Cultenhove with Murray Lawrence I believe – my next door neighbour – probably about nine years old at the time – too long hair – it was fashionable and none of us liked going to old Jimmy the barber who cut hair in his living room. He was the prison barber and you can imagine what we looked like after a visit – the whole neighbourhood knew you'd been to see him. I got a bumble bee stuck in my hair and started screaming and thrashing about in a panic – My buddy put paid to that with a sizable tree branch – we had a huge punch up over that one!
bee-ware
if you ever get a bumblie in your hair
you’d better be a lad that’s well prepared
with extra strength
elasticated leg
double gusset
cotton lycra
close fitting
y front underwear
not a crappy
imported
spit peas through them
stocking stitch
warehouse pair
or a set of
disenfranchised
loony tune
satin lookalike boxers
that circulate the air
if you ever get a bumblie in your hair
you’d better hope and pray your best mate’s not there
with six million dollar man
bionically enhanced
incredible hulk
charles atlas
split level biceps
like a brace of grizzly bears
to grab a branch
or log or tree
and cleave the very air
with dead eye dick
coconut shy
robin hood
hit for a six
hole in one
out of the ballpark
once more for luck
devil may care
reckless abandon
if you ever get a bumblie in your hair…run!
**~top~**
the fly knows
I wrote this after a Waipara festival poetry morning where a young girl – maybe ten years old – came up to me and introduced herself saying “I know you. You're the man that writes the fart poems”. Never one to want to be classified (even when it's true), I thought I'd write her something different – so this is for you, my young fan, and I'm sorry I don't remember your name – however, I do seem to remember your dad did a great reading (the Jaberwocky) that morning.
the fly knows
a shopping mall fly
with not much to do
buzzed up the window
and down again too
he settled on the sill
with a bit of a clunk
thought the strangest fly thoughts
as a fly ever thunk
he thought of the looks
if he flew backwards all june
how long it would take
to fly to the moon
would it be slippery
on the head of a monk
and how much green snot’s
up an elephant’s trunk
a sly little smile came over
the fly – real slow
his eye got a kind of a
glint – like – y’know
when you’ve just had the coolest
idea in your life
and the only friends you can tell
are your two pet mice
cause ratty and tooey
won’t say a word
it’s not the first secret
those mouse ears have heard
like the time you hid your
sandwich in granddad’s best shoe
and waited all week
for a maggot zoo
the fly put into action
his cunning plan
and landed on the nose
of the nearest young man
quick as a blink
he flew to another
a little old lady
a sister, a brother
no nose was safe
as he flew without shame
from a new born wee baby
to an old zimmer frame
all shapes and sizes
he touched on them all
as he flew nose-to-nose
down the length of the mall
when he got to the warehouse
he put on the brakes
turned to the chaos
he’d left in his wake
he laughed a sly fly laugh
at his journey pell-mell
for all the mall shoppers
were swatting themselves
**~top~**
gentleman in training
As men we're occasionally criticised for being a bit on the forgetful or neglectful side. I know a few ladies who lament the lack of available true gentlemen and wonder what happened to them. Ladies, there's no point in pining for a bygone age – the gentlemen are still there – only it's a bit harder to become qualified these days.
gentleman in training
I never bring flowers
my memory’s poor
I’ve got no great stories
I’m no raconteur
no point in changing
I’m set in my ways
but for better or worse
I’m here all your days
let me take you by the hand
walk you down the street
I’ll try to be polite
to those women you meet
I’ll check out the talent
at the Ezibuy store
there’s a seat for guys like me
right by the door
sit down, put your feet up
forget about the mess
I’ve rented a romance
the kind you like best
I’ll tell you what’s happening
and forecast the end
as soon as it’s over
I’ll explain it again
y’see
it’s not about neglect
or a lack of respect
I’m the same guy you married
well, last time I checked
it has nothing to do
with a lack of love for you
I’m just a gentleman
…in training
**~top~**
hummingbird wings
Another of those awkward party moments. A room full of strangers and as the party volume increases I'm having to concentrate too hard to understand the accents – but a beautiful home, perched up on the Cashmere hills overlooking the city. I've always found it difficult to integrate with strangers and having a funny accent can sometimes be a bit of a cross to bear on these occasions – oh come on, say something Scottish – oh! listen to that, couldn't you just listen to it all night?
hummingbird wings
awkwardness
shakes hands with solitude
&nb
sp; as I peer through the ghost of my father
at the city lights
the moat surrounding my introspection
affording temporary protection
against the onslaught
of petit fours, savouries
and conversation
the out of body self
marvelling at the inability of same
to accept the gifts on offer
whilst simultaneously
delighting in abstinence
which spanish inquisitor
constructed such strong defences
which sad marquis
helped the child lay the foundation stones
for this lifetime
of social disgrace
the temporal holiday
is abruptly cut short
by a mouth
sadly in proportion with its owner
they never mentioned this in the brochure
impressionist lipstick
discontented
and who can blame it
slowly attempts a passing acquaintance
with something that was once labelled
but sadly never quite performed as
waterproof mascara
before seeking refuge
behind an ear
yes dear
you too have an accent
the difference is that
I couldn’t listen to it all night
the mouth turns
to vacuum a plate of something
that may have had a better chance of survival
had it been left a shade longer
with its mother
oil tanker bosoms
narrowly miss a small wooden schooner
marooned on the sideboard
miniature hand-painted sailors dive for cover
as panic reigns
in the sideboard tsunami tableau
break out the rum lads
it’s going to be a long hard night
across the great divide
I catch a glimpse of your hands
carving the air in earnest conversation
they seem
happy hands
like hummingbird wings
and I wonder
do they still dance this aerial ballet
for me
or has the weight of love
clipped your freedom of expression
does familiarity actually
bleed content
so that opposites
once energised by proximity
eventually reach stasis
**~top~**
sometimes you just can’t win
When we were kids we played soccer non-stop. Inevitably, the ball ended up in someone's allotment. Old Mr Tawse from the third floor used to totter down the stairs brandishing a breadknife to chase us out of his garden threatening to put a hole in that bl**dy ball if it lands in his flower bed one more time. I remember once my old man had an argument with him over a confiscated ball and called him “a silly owld clown” – that made our day – and we thought it gave us carte blanche to be a pack of right little horrors – how wrong we were!
sometimes you just can’t win
old Mr Cucumber
unable to contain his anger
at the arrival of the soccer ball
for the one hundred and thirteenth time
in the middle of his lawn
grabbed his breadknife
tottered down three flights of stairs
muttering obscenities
and
gasping for breath
gasping for breath
the children
emotionally scarred
from last night’s horror movie trilogy
of cheese melts, popcorn and coca cola
sought refuge behind the coal cellar
but not before beheading
the old man’s prize dahlia