Words, poetry, and thoughts on the side.A Personal Note Words, Slantwise Questions Submissions
I hear the sounds of raucous musings from men and women
At a table, the collective din of joy brought on by beer
And wine; the sulphur hue and tomato red of laughter;
Here a joke, licentious, salacious, a mouthful of sex
Crudely muttered in a giant whisper across the table.
There a proposition, too inappropriate to tell.
Men laugh and women giggle, and under the table games of
Whose foot is that? are played. A glass is raised: “To Tim! Farewell!
So long! Good luck! I hope the next job is better than the last!”
No one cares about Tim; the games continue under the table.
The crowd is dense; a half-hard penis jams a braless back
In passing, but not by accident, as here a man snaking
His way back to the bar, there a woman leaning back.
A shoe goes sliding across the floor; someone must own up,
Half-barefoot with no small amount of momentary rouge
To mark the task. Infidelity under the table
More embarrassing, measured by the foot than by the mouth, it seems.
Poetry should be just a little sexual;
It rolls around the mouth, across the tongue;
The fingertips outstretch and poised; the lips
Puckered, pursed, now pouting to pronounce.
What’s not to be aroused by there? The sounds
Of sweet love-making bound up in the mouth and hands.
Watching Peanuts at midnight, Pinsky on my lap,
(Remember that: it would make a good name for a cat.)
An empty wine bottle and an empty glass on the floor.
A cold, cold night outside dressed up in fog.
“Good grief” – good grief!
The talking mute splutters: bwuh bwuh bwuh,
Bwuh bwuh? Bwuh bwuh bwuh bwuh.
What would Pinsky say? (Meow?)
The chiropractic twist and snap –
I hate that sound – “Impossible to Tell” –
Wasn’t that quoted on the Simpsons?
Robert Frost is quoted three times;
But which poems and which episodes?
Knowing probably wouldn’t make a difference.
Bwuh bwuh bwuh bwuh, bwuh bwuh bwuh?
A door creeks open, a light flickers on;
It won’t be wine walking in, that’s for sure.
Munich in a beer garden in summer,
A moonboot on her foot, and crutches;
Condensation on an empty glass;
The crash of plates on wood and brick
In the background, sarcastic applause;
Something muttered in German –
The exclamation mark is obvious.
She sits, smiling into her half-empty glass
In her yellow floral dress with spaghetti straps,
Sitting low on her back to reveal her latest tattoo:
“Dreamer.” She was a dreamer with a dream-like look
On her face as she sat, motionless with Classical proportions,
Marble excellence, chiselled in time.
Another photograph. She wasn’t looking, but thinking,
Her mind elsewhere, in Australia,
In the sun of the South Pacific somewhere,
Where beaches melt into rain forests
And natives half-naked beckon with bronze-white skin;
Where floral dresses are ironic but welcome,
Anything that comes off easily.
A thunderclap of shattering glass breaks
Her far-off concentration; the sweating empty glass,
Tipped, and rolled, and fell to the brickwork from the table,
Every table uneven and prone in the place for effect.
More words uttered in German,
A grammatical redundancy ensues.
She grabs her crutches and angles her moonboot free
Of the awkward table legs; stands, and proceeds to leave;
Her mind still far off in Australia.