Posts Tagged ‘Bold Monkey’

George Anderson

Posted: January 15, 2017 in Musing, Poetry
Tags: ,

Brains

 

We didn’t call him Brains

in a totally ironical sense

because the bloke

was a gun builder

& street smart

& a passable surfer.

 

What concerned us

was his choice of women

which was from an early age

questionable at best.

 

Let’s just simply say,

that he allowed his dick

to do his thinking for him.

 

Take his latest foray

to bring home the bacon

to get his shit together again

in Mount Isa

to save enough for a deposit

for a home

& then return to the Gong.

 

After a year

of a bloody hard earn

in the mines

Brains returns

with empty pockets

 

save for a hardened sheila

with four feral kids

 

who has a bent for

4 litre cask wine

in the early afternoon

& stray quiver bone.

 

 

The Secret Ministries of Dawn

In the rising secret ministries of dawn

the one the spurned lover knows

 

he rubs her large sagging breasts beneath

the sheets, I’ve got a headache, she whispers

 

the morning is coming on in swimming

dapples of yellow and red, the colour

 

of hot blood, of excuses, fusing as one.

Now he turns and imagines he is taking

 

her as she once was- youthful, exuberant

boing boing boing. The swollen gyrations

 

of his consciousness pumping deep into

her bucking thighs boing boing boing.

 

High above the escarpment a sole

white cloud scrolls across the sky

 

Danger Falling Man

Etherized upon the table

like a China doll

text tongue-tied/

flashes of a falling brunette.

 

Imagine these lines scrawled

in incredibly small handwriting

only decipherable thru a microscope:

 

in his youth he believed in palindromes

& post-it notes to the universe-

if you’re pushy, he’ll show you his catheter.

 

He wakes up hung-over

a borrowed flower made fearful

like when he first ate spinach

& found a dandelion to wish upon.

the thing

the seed
between his legs
lay dormant
like the words
in his head.

when he awoke
in the remnants of a dream-
hope with its head torn off
the stump of its wailing mouth
like nerve-endings twitching.

when he wrote
his head-wheel would wobble
speed. stain. billy goat rattle.
the paint on the wall blistering
the cheated thing he had to express
soon clipped short like toenails of cloud.

he thought about typing out one last line
about his oddball brooding desire
to shift
to move his seeds
to resurrect long dead corpses.

 

Upon reading Carafy for the first time

Shall I hold myself back again?
Keep my hands & cock off your breasts?
 
Shall I fuck you again & again like fodder?
Like a steaming piece of shit?

Or shall I hold you in my arms
& lie about how much I love you?

 

An Unsolicited Email

I receive another unsolicited email:

‘Hello, how are you? I read your poems on Wrinkled Goolies (Strap-On Edition) & I cherish your work. You are charming in my eyes. I wish you will be my love. I think I am right to expirrence my feelings.’

Can’t spell. Lapses in syntax. False sentiment.

Probably Chinese or Russian Mafia.

Dealing in drugs, illegal weapons, prostitution, fraud…

I don’t dare to click on the link, but I’m curious:

‘Thanks for the offer mam
But I don’t answer spam.’

Later that afternoon a reply follows:
‘I love you long time, baby.’

Did you borrow that line from ‘Platoon’?

She doesn’t get the cultural reference.
The ironic dig.

*

She flies to Old Montreal to meet me
she is gangly with red spray on hair
duty free grog. about 25
probably worth another poem or 2.