My Perfect Plane

i.
I walk right into his experiment
after pouring my first beverage.
Some young bright patterned tie
rushes across to form a queue.
I rest the cup on the counter-top.
He smiles and says “take for both”
I outwardly thank his strangeness
but I baulk inwardly, weary from
the effort of accepting without
paying the price he seeks. The coffee
is bitter with gall; barely drinkable
even in my favourite window
seat overlooking the plaza.

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Breakfast

None of us takes time over breakfast any more. Unless, of course, it’s someone else’s.

steaming hides abound –
tractors speed deafeningly fast
clutching breakfast

Where’s the Beef?

Town living is a blessing.
I can walk almost everywhere;
the shops, chemist and to bingo.
But a house right on the
High Street is not without issues.

It’s dark, it’s after ten PM
and my door bell rings.
Local kids are bored again.
Playing “knock and run”.
But without any actual running.

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Starfish

Whose feet?

starfish wrestling –
waves clinking at bared feet
soothing pebble sores

Feek Stink

Mostly a sock is much the same as the next.
Designers agonise over shades and logos
for a tube to keep stench off your boots.

Posh shops know this and wrap them well.
Each sock cosseted in tissue and branded silk,
inside a solid shiny box tied with a bright ribbon.

The quality of these socks is only perceived.
They won’t last as long or stop your new shoes
blistering your ankle; you’ve paid for packaging.

A person is a bag of bodily functions, attitudes
and ape imprinting with feet that stink up shoes.
A pretty ribbon is rarely worth the higher price.

Skyward Paws

Do dogs walk on the sun?  No, of course they don’t.

tired dogs rest belly up –
paws cast smouldering shade after
walking on the sun

Chicken of Despair

Every dawn I romped with the chicken of despair.
Afterwards I would roast it and eat it hot.
The dinner dance often clucked ‘til dusk;
fat with chicken I was a stout but happy fellow.
Now, your diet pills, taken with cold water
(because a fat man must never dance outside)
make me hate even the smell of chickens.
I am not thinner.
Nor am I empty.

I’m a wicker man.
Virgin fear clucking in my belly.
Alight, we could roast together,
but I must let it peck and claw my insides;
eat my cornflakes and cheese sandwiches and smile
(because I know it will want a dance after its tea).
I say I like them and you say I’m better.
I am better.
Better at hiding chicken bones.

Weary Walkers

Confusion in misunderstanding is a fun source of ambiguity.

coffee and cake!
No, I said “my feet ache” –
sorry to hear that

Rules of the Bag Lady

Oil and water don’t
need separate bags
not like a dead badger.

And a prawn sandwich.

Those don’t mix well.

They don’t tell.

How to bag up
your things right.

You have to learn
who’s good company.

To live on my street.

Outside your home,
a hungry fool is
just another stiff.

Dead body wearing
my new dry shoes.

Keep Fit

As man changes the world to his liking other species adapt to the changing landscape. A lawn or playing field isn’t the same as a sandy bank to us, but to a hungry gull it works the same with a bit of effort. That nature is still able to find connections, is a tiny ray of hope for our little ball of dirt.

manicured lawn –
seagulls dance on the heads
of juicy worms