Flounce, Fluff and Flattery

There is a world of difference
Between those who seek the
Company of women
To bask in it
Hanging on their every thought
As one transported
By the beauty
Of a strange and fantastical mind
And those who fancy
A quick in-and-out
Ego-boost before
Zipping their feelings,
Upping sticks and moving on
To the next conquest.

The difference is obvious
Even to the most casual observer:
One is the stuff of
Fantasy and freedom
Of late-night talks
And deep discussions
Long philosophising over
Personal projections
Maybe with a bit of
Barefoot dancing
And a casual pinch of laughter
Thrown in for good measure.

On encountering the other,
I will take the lonely
High road to nowhere
Hiking in stupid, pretty,
Too-tight shoes
Risking my own skin
To preserve sanity
Rather than share transportation,
Food or drink
In exchange for temporary
Flat-footed flattery
With bondage-grade
Strings attached.

I enjoy womanisers
Who enjoy women
In all their complexity,
But have no time
For bed-notch chasing
Egotists with
Straw for brains
And cloth for ears.


I once moved country
With a sleeping bag
A dictionary
Two dresses
A blue t-shirt
One pair of jeans
And a change of underwear
To live in a nine foot
Square box with no
Toilet or fridge
I cooked ravioli
In the tin over
A five euro
Electric kettle
And washed both
Food and clothing
In the bidet
Entertaining friends
One at a time
As I acquired
A single mug
With no handle
Singing songs
With strangers
Who were also
Far from home
So do not dare
To presume
That I will permit
Myself to acknowledge
The inconvenience
Of personal growth
There are other things
Upon this Earth
That chafe

An amorous adventure

Time slips by me like a drunken lover, giggling and giddy in the moon’s unearthly glow. The lines that are appearing, poetry, wrinkled as a newborn, aged as the hills. I laugh to see my face crinkle, this new mask that gloves me and cloaks me and hands me a cane. Perhaps I should go toward the opera house, after all, I do seem to be dressed for it?
Shadows whisper in the twilight as I stagger downward, stumbling on paths I used to know. Old friends desert me, then resurface, years later, surrounded by the spoils of their own adventures and their own spoilt offspring, clamouring for the future.
I digress, moving at tangents from topics I no longer care to discuss. Is it all over yet? So soon? I wonder at my own, comforting mortality, then see the plastic faces in the papers and shudder. Not my pipeline, frequency, whatchamacallit, wavelength? Not my style.
And raincoats let in water, wellingtons are worn in place of sandals, underwear becomes the latest craze and the world sighs as it flops over, turning itself inside-out in the name of fashion.
I mark the seasons, birthdays, holidays, nights when I sleep well, with a sort of passing satisfaction. Nothing matters so much it is lethal, no problem is unsolvable, and yet I slow down, grinding to a halt, paralysed by movement, breathless through static. And all of Time kisses my body in a quiet portico.
I am bathed in sand, asleep, awake? I lie alone and listen for each passing footfall, each second, each heartbreak, each life.