Category: poetry

reminiscing about the fence

A poem about the periodicity of
celebrity ogling.

i had a dream about Chappell Roan


full stop.


okay not about her, but one in which
she appeared.

pretty sure it was her.
i feel i should be throwing confetti in the air.
blow a kazoo


and it wasn’t a sex dream,
don’t believe me?

and there wasn’t any reactive,
MS Paint-quality nudity.
calm down –
it was actuated by a photo
i saw of her without
too much makeup on

standing alone in profile on a press go-around
with a wallpaper of watermarks like you’d see
in the background,
no wig, dyed hair luminescent
and wearing what some call a ‘normal’ top
with thong straps,

staring straight ahead like i was the skeez
peering over her property line,
standing at that precipice with my hands on its ledge

when really i’m thousands of miles away
on a screen

*

how, then
to describe my dreams?

in repetitious themes.
always searching for something the most
difficult, illogical way i can

so just like the rest of person
& animal kind.
i had the ‘A’ tattooed on my hand –
the sign for ‘Awake’, to help with lucidity –
but i still close my eyes at the bottom of a hill
looking up –
Kate Bush can run if she wants to, i’m not with her group

or driving through a backwood overhung
so i can get to something parochial and dumb,
like a locker with a combination i can’t remember
at the middle school i went to more than twenty years prior

you following?
because it’s the last day to hand in the essay
worth 80% of my grade?
just like the all-nighters i would pull in university,
and of course there’s no parking
’cause it’s Activity Day
so everyone can see me coming up the roadway
but it isn’t vice-versa with their skinwalker outlays
and the halls are empty;

all these fucking corridors look the same –
Chappell ain’t here, she would’ve just started Primary;
there’s no receptionist, no aids –
a challenging intention
devolves into simple wandering,
and so it goes again and again.

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too much (cheese song)

A short poem to the tune of
Jax’s “Victoria’s Secret”.

i know the “melty cheese” secret
boy, you wouldn’t believe
it’s just fast-food mumbo-jumbo to sell you
on slices sealed in a factory
by staff that’s quicker to rehire
than to teach how to retire –

i know the “melty cheese” secret:
it’s the same mom grilled for me & you.

//wd 10.17.2024

Photo by Nano Erdozain on Pexels.com

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Kubrick & cannabis and sex positions

A poem about compulsions,
with allusions to “2001”.

i haven’t seen any
good porn lately
oh baby, oh baby
who cares


i’m Silver-Surfing around Uranus
leaving my traces,
as we zoom out to the vastness of space –

there’s one old account still active:
a beacon;
a still, moldy vessel for public lice
with all the water-under-the-surface secrets of a
dirty-minded twenty-something’s
compulsionary vice,
frozen in time


and nothing’s going off there, either.

it’s not for lack of invocation:
putting on my web goggles;
tightening my gloves
like i’m the Baron, speed-cracking my knuckles,
despite no chance against Snoopy like
Charlie versus Lucy.
that’s a thousand hours of dedication
i could have poured into anything else.

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a metaphysical altercation in the parking lot at Macca’s

aka. ruining it

A poem about excuses and constants.

oh God,
my life.


it’s 11:59 on my Saturday night
and His phone is already on silent.
i wish i could afford the same capacity to ignore
knowing omnipresently that everything was
alright.


back to life.
back to reality.
however do you want me?

i’m watching a twenty-something YouTube partner from Australia
demonstrate a twenty-dollar iPod rip-off from China
while i dig into another box of Extra Toasty Cheez-It’s –
courtesy of Kellanova –
cronch-cronch-cronch
lip-smacking-sounds amok

and at the back of my mind, i can’t help to wander
why i still haven’t taken my two scoops of
smooth, orange-flavoured fibre,
of which consideration is by Procter & Gamble
and the cold enamel
of the toilet bowl i’ve yet to spackle.


the jester takes comparison pics between the knock-off,
his iPhone, and his Pixel
of his dog,
his mouser,
his fenced-in yard –
and i know how much pet food costs:
while i personally have none, i have family who does
and it occurs to me that’s probably where this was

and then the camera flips to face his quaff,
looking like i could have fifteen years younger
had i kept the same locks,
and avoided whatever life conundrum concocted the lump
what is the foreign organ from my father
in my tum,
and the fat it collected as it settled upstream
and the broken record’s excuse for skipping is that
some things in life are just worth repeating

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maybe

A poem about probability.

maybe i’ll get what i want.

maybe.
some day.


maybe soon
i’ll know what i want.
sooner than later is better.


maybe i enjoy eating frozen foods
and protein bars
and McDonald’s for lunch every day.
it’s a choice.

maybe.
just maybe.

maybe one day i’ll have the strength after work
to make a proper meal
that cleans out the fridge
and uses all the sauce
for a change.

maybe.


maybe on the other end of that hotline
she’s laughing at my jokes
and not rolling her eyes
as i am assuming from her uniform replies.
maybe.

maybe i need to slow my roll

and maybe i need to step it to the floor
and go full bore –
Mad Max form –
right now ahead of my fifteenth chance
or i’m too old to learn from my mistakes anymore.
whichever comes before.
maybe.


maybe maybe maybe.
maybe yesterday was already too late

and maybe i’ll grow a third leg.

maybe i’ll croak in a week and maybe
i’ll pass away peacefully in my sleep

and maybe i’ll get rigor with an
endorphin-induced end-of-life dream boner
and an open casket will be out of the question.
kind of hard when you’re already booked
for incineration.

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