A SINGLE SKULLER
Smileology
The
man
who makes others smile,
and
never smiles himself, has lead
a life
no doubt that’s worthwhile.
Who’ll
smile for him when he’s dead?
He who
thinks that the world smiles
out of
his arse, doesn’t give
a damn,
except for the piles
he
suffers. Others must live
to
service his self regard
or
suffer a life made hard
putting
up with amour propre.
Much
easier to be a prop.
Summer in Winter
I
need
an outlet, being a pressure cooker.
This
summer in winter continues as though
the
cycle of things has been suspended.
I’m
either over or under the weather.
I feel
tropical without the exotic
blood
warming. I sweat with fear and loathing.
Then
take a long cool drink and say to the world
‘Thanks
for putting up with me’. ‘It’s
nothing’,
replies
the mystical body of others.
Here
where the wine is cheaper than the water
every
day somebody you know drops dead.
The Maternity Scene in
Bras de Vendres
In
order
to attract a full-time man,
go out
in black leather boots, and short skirts.
But it
is de rigeur to push a pram.
Readymade
sprogs are your dot or dowery.
Two are better than one. State payments
are
exponential. Twins are the most prized.
Your
rear view will be particularly noted.
So long
hair musn’t hang below the waist.
Remember
fecund buttocks move the earth.
Amongst
Uncommon Riches
Venice
March 2007
The
past
has been colonised,
but not
by tourists. We are
the
paying slaves. The tyrants
service
us. They know their job;
dispatch
it efficiently
without
triumphalism.
Although
they make you pay for
the
musak in the cafés,
we
experience no worse than
discomfort.
The wages
of
passing pleasures are
a return
to where one belongs.
Like
Ulysses, I come home
from a
good trip enriched
in
spirit and impoverished
in
pocket. I am content.
Though
my body is crumbling,
my head
is above water.
Bol d’air
Stepping
out my garden gate
I look
down the boulevard:
a boy
comes out of a house
and
bounces a tennis ball
against
the wall. It’s a scene
from
everybody’s childhood.
As I
pass, he nips back in.
On
the Waterfront
It
is
too late now to be
a
promising single sculler.
I must
accept I am me.
A
crab-catching bow.
‘Recuiller
pour mieux sauter’, the devil prods.
‘Then
jump in at the deep end.’
‘Don’t
listen’, thunder the gods.
‘You're
all washed up.’
I extend
myself
towards the heavens,
and
bounce the diving board.
Sky at
sixes and sevens,
I walk
the plank, backwards.
Woody’s
Wind Instrument
When
Woody Allen plays his clarinet
it’s
like Benny Goodman after his death
blowing
a blade of grass from the tomb.
But
the
wind in the reed cannot exhume
more
than the spittle of a hermit clam.
Woody
mimes to the backing. He’s their jam.
These
bread and butter sidemen may be stale
and
rancid, but they can’t afford to fail
in
delivering the Barney Bigards
when
their master solos his silent farts.