Today at the train station

A stranger came up to me

And asked for directions.

I had the sudden urge to give him the wrong ones

Or take him behind the stairwell and

Gut him

And let his family watch as stomach and liver

Flobber out over slipping intestines, or simply

Grab him and throw him onto the train tracks

As the half five train approaches.

It would give people a reason to

Remove their sunglasses,

And possibly even their iPods,

Headphones dangling uncomfortably

As they fumble to save a pointless

(As well as futile) situation.

Maybe they would film it with their phones.

Maybe I'd be famous.

Instead I just sigh and give him the right directions,

Tell him the correct train to travel on,

And slowly smile as he waddles off

And doesn't believe me.

Teetering on her baby legs
A newborn with a Solo cup
bombastic red with a few
undulating ribs
Held firmly in her hand
Is this her first or her third?
Somnambulant yet eager
And just a little out of place
In a foreign territory
On newly contested lands
She stumbles through a raucous crowd
Or was it just white noise?
She’s lost her companions
Somewhere
Although they could very well be close at hand

In the distance she can make out
Laughing faces
Bodies moving to and fro
Spilling forward, little messes
Throwing back cheap libation

She passes through a room and out the door
Into the out-of-doors
Someone following her unbeknownst
Watching her cautious, curious steps
And when she turns and sees the blur standing
She greets it
“Hail Fellow!”

Bouncing from variable to variable
Frequency to frequency
Confident and in command
Of a seemingly controlled chaos
He approaches smiling and holds out his hand
Anonymous

Having drawn her attention from the stars
That she could not find above
Leaning against the garage’s eastern wall
She takes it awkwardly
Tentative she smiles back reassured
Wobbling she returns standing alongside him
Or was she in front?
Purposeful and en route
Emboldened by his presence
And how the way was parted before her
Just by his being there.
By being so close.
She felt vaguely special
it showed in her half-smile
Cloaked in bangs
She held her head just a little bit higher

The co-conspiratorial glances
Met by boys eyes
And shes
Went unseen by the girl with the
Solo cup
One of tens upon tens upon tens
A coven would have known
It’s better not to

However.

She was shown a seat to rest
And her cup refilled
She takes a sip and smiles again
She takes another and then a gulp
That spills
He takes the cup away
And places it on the low table
Suggests she go to the restroom upstairs and get herself
Sorted

Embarrassed she is relieved for direction
Someone knows what’s going on
And his caring
Taking the time
His kind eyes
She’s usually alone
She waddles up the stairs to find
a toilet and a mirror
God she thinks
I look a mess
She tries to fix it
The hair
The eyes
The lips
The dress
The stomach
The *******
The thighs

She shrugs her shoulders at her reflection
Exhales and steps out again
To find him standing there
waiting for more.

She wants another cup.
She’s missing her cup.
I’ll get you the cup he says
In just a second.
Come.

It is possible.
To leap beyond where fear takes us.
Surely so many things happen.
By contrast
We stand still.
Wound up in total curiosity.
To dream in wonderment.
With each twirl we captivate the essence of someone else.
A sort of inspiration that convinces us that we are more than what we believe.
Beginning to walk,
Our other functioning parts come to life.
Embraced in true courage.
Spun around and round.
This huge metal behind it's back.
Suddenly this obstacle isn't what it seems.
First finding what is important.
The touch of someone else
Through encouragement.
The wind-up doll begins to move
No longer incapable by what we define as fear,
But enormous faith.
To place all of it's self in another
Without fear of adding another chip to it's face.
It waddles along.
Moments later,
Pride interferes.
It's movements stop.
To be spun up again and again
Falling to the floor
Seconds at a time

Know it all in theory never practiced
Waddles and quacks
Assumptions under false pretenses
Opinions often criticize
Judgments without a clue
Senseless chatter
Assless pants
Years behind
Broken spirits
Wavering faith
What is proof?
Wasted life and selfish acts
Yeah, what do you know?

A stampede of elephants
Running through the rooms of my mind
As their legless bodies ask
"How?"

A toucan flies to rest on a thought
With two million and two branches reaching towards my heart.
"How many cans can a toucan can if a toucan could can cans?"

Now this monkey must be joking
Those are my feelings he's holding.
And he continues to toss them about.
He peels off the skin and throws it over his shoulder
And takes one big bite out of the happiest one.

And this little duck waddles,
Left foot, right foot.
The left side is fine, but his right
Sends a nerve that clenches a fist to a glass window.

"Quack, quack."

Snip snap,

And there goes the vertebrae in my spine.

It was a Saturday night  in the park
his trees were singing
out of tune
his clay pigeons needed to come out
of his closet
for he was parked
on a stool
at his favorite watering hole
amongst a full house
where pairs beat singles
and there he was
shooting blanks
drowning in his sorrows
on his nine lives of lowlife
hoping for a sitting duck in despair
the kind that waddles right up to the Romeo's
with suspense in their hearts
and spontaneity in their wings
a cackle
that he can tackle
to take home
to his garden bed
for him to be fed
but what he got
was for not, naught, knot
wistful thinking
sitting in a bar sinking
for the jukebox played a broken record
finding love in the wrong places
and the joke squarely was on him
for thinking, he could round the bases
looking no further than the escape of his glows
or a crutch of decoys
and sitting ducks
for he was no Romeo
yet
there he was still, like steel,
a stole away in society
forlorn, preserved
like mamas mothballs tucked away
in basement storage
squandering the forage
for there were no triple treats
tonight for him
or forever sounds grim
for his reality check gone dim
or
no eye candy
for his heart beats
no picnic
for his ****
and all the bottled whiskey
could not drown out his pain
as his eyes were slain
as the sitting ducks turned
from his fantasy corner
phantomlike
and though
he's sitting at the bar, a loner
reminded that in cards of life
pairs beat singles
and in his worn hand
familiarly holds a lonely joker
for it's like he tries
and its
like his sitting ducks
are like hoofed deer
and his little sweets,
are spooked
hoofing
away from his
now darken forest
like red ants at his picnic
and the gleam in his eyes turned
to the poorest
its
its
as if his life and watering hole
was condemned
his garden bed cut at the stem
it is as if he has a red vest on
and a rifle don
and all the hoofed deer
panic
looking at him in fear
like he's manic
or maybe it's his eyes
that hold dark skies
he orders another double
trouble
for what else is there to do
on his Saturday night
than to sit in a bubble
forever sounds grim
but sing him a sweet hymn
he says please
to wit as he steals peeks
at the bartenders triple treats
like a bee to a hive
his joker still strikes a beat
if only he can find a bolster
for his gun needs a holster
and a deer in the headlights
would be hard to find
the confession now told, tolled, towed
through tears
the guy in the bar window
is me, sitting
resigned

Logan Robertson

10/18/2018

I like big bills and I can not lie.
No other hunter can deny,
When a duck waddles in with an itty bitty bill
And feathers in your face
You're on QUACK!
I gotta shoot him quick
But I noticed that duck was stuffed,
Even the tags it's wearin.
I'm hooked an I can't stop starin.
Oh, ducky, I gotta go shoot ya,
And take your picture.
The rangers try to warn me
But that bill you got makes
Me so hungry!

He is very low to the ground
He snuffles and sniffles and waddles around
He makes his home in a tree
What on earth could this creature be?
He has spikes and stickers and quills galore
There's a hint if you didn't know before
If you really stop and search your mind
You'll realize he's a porcupine

I know there will come a day when she will leave me

She has to

No longer will I get to enjoy the beauty of the smile she hates
Or notice the way she waddles away
A bit like a duck

'I'm perfectly okay with this'
That is what I'll say
That is what I'll say on that terrible day

And it's coming...

Creation slows for no man
Not even the son of Three
It's coming to take her away
To new and exciting roads...

A life that needs to be lived in a little

I hope that she finds the goodness
That she finds peace
It's an ugly world we live in
If you ain't marching to the right beat

If ever you need me, I'll be around
Spinning just the way I always was
Even if only the electrical impulses that used to be me
Remain buried

Dusty

Deep in the back of your mind

I hope sometimes you'll visit
You can have a seat in my chair
Perhaps we will plan new adventures
Or just reminisce about the ones we've shared

Either way, I will be grateful
To see that you're happy and intelligent, and capable
I'll tell you a couple of my stories, too!
Maybe then we'll fall in love the way

All True Lovers do.

Bitter.

Tangy.

Chest poking,
distress...
anxiety.

An orange peeled.

A tomato congealed.

Acid rising,
distress...
anxiety.

laughter.

disaster.

911 on the line,
distress...
anxiety.

Please stay on
until we arrive.

strobing lights.

harrowing ride.

11 hours of machines
distress...
anxiety.

1 year to a MRI.

1 year to live or die?

A Canadian health care story
distress...
anxiety.

Take some of these pills,
and call us in 5 years,
distress...
anxiety.

Quacks.
Waddles.
Going south.


http://www.robross.ca

The corner restaurant is a rendezvous of ghosts:
wholesome weeping wannabes, caricatures of caricature people,
large heads and drooping eyes, haunting cold coffee mugs,
burgers with fries, buzzing waitresses exhausted
has two kids back home and a young guy,
his hands deep in soapy waters and plates,
sweat stained shirt and forever o clock shadow
wishing he was someplace far, he's new but that one's not,
that one flipping canned meats, beer gut hanging low,
been here since 1975, used to play the guitar for a band,
the doors swing open, "Hey man, how long y'all open?",
boasting a cigarette mouth, coughing and yellow,
"I gotta get on the road but what pies you got?",
a 'Nam jacket zipped up, he sits while the jukebox sings
a cancerous voice and narcotic trumpet, and two lovers
are lost in the saturn moons for hours, wandering alien spaces,
the envy of no one, all the clocks crack the midnight bouquet,
the register rings, the phone rings, the manager scowls,
"Someone give her a hand!" mascara caked mystery howls
as her order nearly flips as the struggling waitress loses her tips,
and it never ends, the "help wanted" sign shines beneath the neon fright,
like moths attracted to lights, a newborn waddles inside.

Before even flight  .  .  .
Landed seagull chick strides, reads,
Waddles through bookshop.

I like big bills and I can not lie.
No other hunter can deny,
When a duck waddles in with an itty bitty bill
And feathers in your face
You're on QUACK!

9:43 p.m.
She sits at the kitchen table,
Head in her hands.
Taxes lay splayed out in front of her.
It's so many for one woman.
9:44 p.m.
Her little boy,
Her baby,
Toddles out, curly hair askew,
Sleepy eyes blinking.
"Okay, Mommy?" He wonders, yawning.
"Okay, baby," she says sadly in reply.
9:45 p.m.
"Where the crayons?" He asks.
"Huh?"
"For coloring."
"Oh, baby, I can't color on these."
"Okay. I color then." He waddles back out of the room.
Her head is still in her hands.
9:47 p.m.
Baby returns with a box set of Crayola crayons.
"Ready, Mommy? I color now."
He takes an envelope, crayon poised.
Her head lifts. "Baby, don't color on those!
Here, I'll get you something."
9:48 p.m.
She returns. "Sorry, baby, there's no paper.
I guess you can't- no!"
Indigo blue is spread across two bills,
A cerulean rainstorm where her dues should be.
"Oh, baby!" She yells angrily.
"I needed those!"
He stares at her with wide blue eyes,
Welling up with tears.
"I sorry, Mommy," he cries.
"I wan'd make you happy.
Maybe blue make you happy?"
9:49 p.m.
It's her turn to tear up.
"Baby, baby, I'm sorry I yelled."
She scoops him up, kisses him in the forehead.
"You're right, baby, blue does make me happy."
She looks over at the crayon box.
A collection of pink, green, and orange looks up at her, waiting.
She selects lime green.
It was his favorite color.
The woman and her baby begin to color those **** taxes.

Still the women wait in trembling hope
Near the old pit head in the valley;
The earth's turbulence has long abated;
"Let him live, dear God", each prays silently.

Still they linger, knees bloodied from kneeling
Hopelessly on the old cobbled main street,
Eyes ugly red from constant weeping.
Not daring to acknowledge the worst.

Still lies the sad morning after the vigil,
And now there are no more survivors.
"**** this for a ******* waste of time,"
Yells Fat Irene as she waddles off to the pub.

I fear we have fallen
Into an English spell
Which subtly says to us
You are not capable
Wrapped in a golden
Envelope and slipped
Into our subconscious
With a diminishing smile

Should we trust the hand
Which patronizingly offers
Financial security while the
Other hand saps our strength
As they puff up their own ego feathers
As England waddles around the globe
Like a fat bird still hungover
From the British Empire
As they still play their empire game
With the fat turkey across the water

Is the only place we can
Choose to paint our face with
Our own colours is to remain
The sideline of a rugby pitch
As England paints its colours
And philosophy over our world
The spellbound English
May see themselves as
A well meaning parent
But they stifle our freedom
As we are made to feel like children
As they cast a net over us

Let us not be bewitched
By their bribery
Or consumed by their words
As they bind us to a wheelchair
We never needed
Let us raise our own ceiling
From its deflated value
We have been cast
Are we all fooled by
A blanket of economic mysticism
Are we not blessed with enough ability
Or should we keep sending our
Home work to London
So they may score our maths

Has England gnawed away at our
Self confidence for so long
That we ourselves on our knees
Unable to convince ourselves
Of our own capability
For we are not England
With its lost identity
As it spreads itself losing
All boundaries and self
Our first steps maybe nervy
As we seek our center
To find our balance

The choice is yours
But while our eyes are
Distracted and bedazzled
By the London elite
Our Scotland remains partially
Unseen and unheard
So let us turn our eyes back
And see our SCOTLAND
And hear him ROAR!!!!

I find myself staring
At this little girl in the aisle,
Tottering through
A city of sweets.

With small, outstretched fingers
She waddles hastily
Towards this huge pack
Of chocolates
Giggling silently,
Eyes a bright ruddy brown.

Her mother catches her and laughs,
Puts the chocolates just out her of reach.
Her chubby hands strain
To reach it but to no avail.
Instead they find her mother's long,
Graceful fingers and
Her knowing smile:
Deep brown eyes lit up like one of those
Chocolate bars,
Even sweeter.

I'm sitting here,
at my regular table
and in through the door,
waddles a stream of gluttony
bodies like melting planets
and a look which falls somewhere
between pride and entitlement
is plastered on their sweaty bovine faces
they come into an area
graze while the grass is good
and slowly meander elsewhere
chewing the cud the whole while
like an old trail hand
chews a thick *** of tobacco
these people
who don't know the meaning
of living a lean life
what do they do?
besides propagating fast food franchises
and big and tall clothing stores
what do they do?
they sit in their cubicles doing the same
mindless
mundane
pointless
task for eight hours
with lunch and breaks
and then they drag themselves back home
to the herd
and sit down in their puffy couches
in front of the T.V.
with a microwaved meal
staining their beat up wife beaters
before they fall asleep
on the couch
their mouths propped open
drooling
with a still half full
can of coors light
balanced precariously
between their cottage cheese thighs

It waddles across the landscape
an untidy blubbering mess
that cannot hide its hugeness
its folds of flabby flesh

Its expanding multiple chins
increase its oozing girth
a monstrous shape that maneuvers
to threaten the planet earth

It moves like a massive shadow
with its striking stature and depth
it destroys the people's planet
with one smothering crushing step

It is a crisp winter evening in Chicago, and children everywhere are finishing up a day filled with hot cocoa, wet mittens, and NO SCHOOL. A particular family enjoys the evening frolicking in the snow mounds in their front yard. Snow falls softly as a young girl sits on one of the mounds and watches the scene unfold; her family enjoying nature’s wonders. The trees in the yard become delicate, sparkling saplings as the snow falls lightly onto their branches. With yesterday’s snowmen in the yard and garland and twinkling lights strung from the porch railings, the house looks anticipant of Christmas morning. The eldest boy, clad in navy jacket and green pants, works on the finishing touches of his precious snow fort. His younger brother builds an equally satisfying fortress opposite him. Flakes are beginning to fall faster as the father of the family continues on with tedious task of shoveling the never-ending driveway. The snow continues to fall as the youngest daughter lies in the snow flapping her arms like a bird as she makes angels in the snow. As the brothers begin a rigorous snow battle, the youngest child waddles out of the house in a puffy coat, ginormous mittens, and way-too-big boots. He plops down onto the ground next to his sister, and tries imitating her flapping. Every now and then, a car will come by, and the young children pelt it with snowballs, and the driver, very annoyed, honks his horn profusely at them. As the girl watches her family take pleasure in the night, smelling lingering car exhaust and dinner, feeling flakes dust her face, she can’t help but wonder if this will be the one thing she remembers best about her childhood.

I'm confident!* I scream.
A few people on coffee runs turn my way.
I check my watch and climb up on my chair.
I'm confident! I scream just a bit louder.
I am a confident woman!
I few more people pause from their lunch breaks
and shoot snide looks in my direction.
I climb up onto the table where I had been enjoying a Philadelphia roll
a few minutes ago. I take a deep breath.
I'm confident! I yell so the whole street can hear me.
I am! I don't care that I'm here alone! Or that I'm not my perfect weight!
I am confident!
I'm breathing heavily, glowing with the success of my impromptu performance.
I feel a tug on my pant leg, and below me is a weathered woman
who reminds me of my mother with the concerned wrinkles between her eyebrows
and the history in her eyes.
Get down here she snaps at me.
Get off that **** table. Now.
I hop down and sit at the table where I had been before my performance.
You can't just do that.
Do what?
Lie!
I don't answer right away, and I look around
to see if someone put her up to this. What?
Hunny she takes my hand You're not confident if you have
to prove it to me ok? So let's stay away from the tables and proclamations today.
As my mouth gapes open
she waddles off the restaurant patio and melts into the urban daytime rush.

She stares into the mirror
And sees her ugly face
She just wants to be pretty
Not a pitiful disgrace.

She just wants to be let go
From the clutches of dispair
To be thin, not fat and ugly
Like her friends. It's so unfair.

She hears as people laugh at her
As she waddles down the street
She dies a little more inside
With everything she eats.

She hasn't eaten much for weeks
And she won't eat today
She doesn't care about much else
Just how much she weighs.

She can't see the jutting bones
Or skin so pale and gaunt
She's not in control anymore
It's the fear of fat that haunts.

Laugh if you want;
lately my dreams
are all the same:

black and white and silent,
a montage of mute scenes
in which he quietly appears,

a funny little man beset
by brute absurdities, framed
by a toothbrush mustache,

bowler hat, and vagabond suit—
dressed for hapless caricature,
a disheveled angel in disguise.

He forever waddles away from me
down a lane of denuded trees,
jauntily twirling his bamboo cane,

his gray pocket watch stopped—
a cheap prop at the end of a chain.
Watch how the last scene transpires:

I stay in my cushioned seat
expecting house lights to rise.
Alone in the dead theater,

I wait for the live orchestra
to offer an accompaniment,
to set the silver screen on fire.

In the green meadow I sit
Cross legged in the grass
Sun soaking my skin
Warming me in it's comforting rays
Spreading over me
A blanket of youth

Opening my eyes I see
A strange bird
Staring at me
Feathers of red and a curved over beak
A strange little bird
Staring at me

A song it does sing
While looking at me
A song so beautiful
It caught me of guard
I get to my feet, unable to speak
For this beautiful melody has made my voice weak

As I walk to the bird
The beauty does strike me
Not only of the sound but, of everything around me
The leaves on the trees, dark reds and greens
The twinkling of the stream
The shine flowing the currents so mild

Walking to the stream, I begin to dream
Then the bird waddles next to me
The bird so odd with an exotic beauty
I reach out to touch but, it moves away
The bird of red motions to me
His thoughts aloud they seem
"Look in the water with me"

Craning my head I see what he sees
No longer is there a bird looking at me
The beauty is mine
My features they shine
Against the sun, against the wind
My wings, they will fly.

Listless dove
Stretched for miles
Like the land of America from the
East to West coast
Americans screaming inside their bellies
Pushing for
One
More
Dollar before
The final
Push

Atop this plastic and glass with
Plastic keys,
Images of ruby red dots with yellow eyes
Pinned to thin tree branches
Come to mind.
Rather than thinking, I listen
To the droning spray of a man
Watering his already dead garden.
Hope that life will again
Spring forth.

An old woman with a crooked neck
And a crumpled piece of scratch paper face
Waddles down the hot grey sidewalk.
Her clothes are in rags where her destination is
Unknown to me and to her.
Sometimes it is best just to go
Letting the unconscious mind take reins
Shifting one's body into a wild horse
Where soon the eyes enflame in hot red,
The hooves split into four toes instead of two,
Its tail turns rigid like an icicle, like a spike,
And it is off - whatever it is this beast transformed into -
Leaving only dust behind where it once stood.

All the drugs have been done and some friends made it,
Others didn't.
Where there is shame there is also guilt experimenting with
Experience.
A full whirl apocalyptic nightmare pressing against
The panes of clear Nordstrom glass and typewriter keys.
Bleeding ink and screaming obscenities up at the sky
As if the harsh words would bring down morbid rain.
Type all day and eventually, you'll end up in tears.
Read all day and eventually, you'll end up in the insane asylum.
Do what you hate all day and you'll end up
Like more then half of the country, starving spiritually
Anxious about the lotto numbers and the next big game.
The final score is the death bed, cold and stale, with a flat screen
Color TV you didn't even ask for.
The foods bad and nobody will talk to you except the nurses.
You see the scythe hanging out of the closet door.
Mr. Death was never too good at hide-and-seek.
There's a button to press when your bladder starts to hurt, but
You can't find it, so you *** anyway, thinking,
"This is what every great hero who died before their time
Got to miss. Lucky *******."

A lime green letter from a friend from someplace far away
Tells me I was somebody else before what I am now
When things change they get better or they get worse or everything's
Just different...how vague that word is...things are just different
What weight has changed? What colors are different? What parts
Of the body hurt more than before? Can you love or trust or **** or
Cry or moan or fear or hurt or betray the same?

Are there are things in this world that take you by the tail and whirl
You around like a boomerang, channeling all thought into a Mexican
Firecracker shooting for a pink lemonade moon reflecting Aristotle's
Worst nightmares - our nightmares! - so the dead podium where all
Who read their thoughts and share their thoughts are there too, listening,
Wondering if this is the next Kerouac or do they have the right stuff
Or Whitman or Bukowski or Plath or Woolf or Jones or or or the next
Something because every generation needs its messiah.
Every generation needs somebody to lead the way but maybe this time
We are leading the way and don't need anyone to take the lead, for we'll
All take the lead! All lead the way! All innovate and press on for a world
Without war and clean water in every faucet and guns that shoot
Flowers instead of bullets and a world where the streets of Mexico are
No longer running red with blood but with the sound of music echoing
Off the walls as if the whole city were in a grand cave filled with light,
Light of a million grandmother's kissing their grandchild's cheeks before
Their final breath. My grandmother, smiling so every wrinkle on her face
Curls like a chirping blue jay or a purring kitten; smiling so her eyes
Begin to water and she chokes by a sob of joy and sadness and knowing
Release...inevitable release! All that is living will one day die and she
Sees that in the mirror and in my eyes and her son's eyes and every
Pair of eyes in stranger's that she passes in the supermarket or on the
Street or within her dog's eyes, her precious dogs, her rocks, her life,
Her love, the only companions that die with you when you do.

Pastels upon paper mixed with water colors
The sun rises presenting a new land with an old soul
Born again, rise again, see it all again
Spilled out on the ground like water
Laying there, soaking into the ground, becoming one with the ground
An order from the general - the general germ of authority
I turn my back and walk in the opposite direction
Hearing gunfire meant for me I smile and lean my head back

Taking the weight of all of me off of me.

when one
waddles
through
puddles
one often
gets wet
from
the feet up
then one may
get upset

yet if one
takes to water
like the duck
should not
the wet feet
from waddling
be akin to it's back
water free falling
and feet unstuck

if unducklike
you be
avoiding
the puddles
of life
may well
be the key
to a life
of dry feet
and a smiling
phsyche

neckity neck you
are hurting my back
I am tired already as
sleep kept me racked
with exhaustion last
night, at night it's alright;
I remembered caffeine
and now my brains alight.
I will sleep on the bus as
it paddles to cracktown;
I will sleep on the bus as
it waddles to where
I'm soon to call home,
first I will throw the bone,
so I have something to
chew on

arrival.

Miss Pinkie
opens her door
and smiles.

I see you brought
some wine,
good boy;
go through
to the lounge.

She takes
the bottle of plonk from me
and I go through
and sit
on the white sofa.

She's playing
the Delius LP
I bought her.

The lounge smells
of perfume
and a touch of *****.

She comes in
with two glasses of wine
and puts them
on the coffee table.

How are you?

Not bad, not good.

Somewhere in between?

Guess so.

She sits down next to me;
her left hand touches my knee;
she's starting early.

I like places in between.

I guess you do.

You know I do.
She smiles;
her dimples explode.

I see you've put on Delius.

Yes, he's good.

Like me.

Hardly, my boy, hardly.
Her hand
moves up my thigh.

I pick up my glass
and sip.

Her hand reaches
my in between
and I almost choke
on the wine.

Are you multi-tasking?

No,
just sipping my wine.

She's nineteen years
my senior;
she's like a poor man's
Marie Antoinette
in looks.

She picks up her glass
and gulps the wine down.

That's how one drinks wine;
do you think the Romans
sipped wine?

I gulp down my wine;
feel light-headed;
put down the glass.

On here
or in my bed?

Don't mind.

Indecision
shows indifference.

I smell her perfume;
it engulfs me.

Her hand resumes
its search of paradise;
her red-nailed fingers
reach home;
my pecker stirs
like a woken snake.

Here is best.

Thought so,
she says.

She removes
her lower garments,
I look away;
too much
of a good thing
kind of philosophy.

Delius plays on,
but I prefer Mahler
alongside
****** activity,
he has more passion,
more sensuality.

She lays back.

I lower
my lower garments.

Her phone rings,
rattles on
the nearby shelf.

She gets up
and waddles
to the phone
and answers.

Hello, how are you?

No, I’m ok.

Can't make it tonight
I’m a bit *******.

Tomorrow?
Yes, should be fine.

Bye-bye.

I sit there,
watching
her plump backside;
Delius has ended
and so have I.

A sense
of disappointment
and a big
warm sigh.

The minority lays the golden egg,
And one waddles into Aso Rock,
The crows are on edge,
Threaten to peck him out in a one-way truck.

My destiny is becoming quicker
I'll bound to be a middle aged litter picker
I see the cans and mackie dee's wrap
I see the hedges full of crap

I walk around the block 'n shake my head
I come across discarded plastic 'n shake with dread
The old woman waddles with her ID badge
I'm on a mission, watch out Madge

I envisage buying the remote grabber
You know the one that'll make me madder
All I need next is a bag
To pick up the sea of discarded ***

I see an old guy bending over
Perhaps he's checking that there is some clover
Perhaps he's comes to get rid of blue
No, no, no, no he's a middle aged picker too

Laying in the dark, stretched out in disdain,
A shadow waddles up to join me on the couch.
I see very little, groggy with sleep,
Yet I feel a sour ***** in my guts,
As her words spill with scorn from her lips.
A last ditch proclamation of love,
After all of the frustrations have smothered it
Underneath wasted hours of medicated sleep,
Hiding from impending anxieties
That never occur with the frequency they are anticipated.
Wasting hours and hours hiding from the frustrations of the past,
A place where I felt welcome,
Until I saw the emptiness of death
And wanted to avoid it in the waning light of my life.
Now we have parted in anger, again,
But I feel relief for us both,
From our stubborn whims and self-defeating depression.
I just hope you don't drown out in the world.
I will still love you forever.