Miss, missed, missing..

I have no apetite
for fat nihilated
black upon a cooking pan
the stink of baby crap

or warm nauseating Sunday
steam rising from the Hot Point
belly full with nappies
and my man’s shirts

nor a belly distended
with child
making sad permanence
of one

yet you make me lack all these

Short & snappy

  • I have no tears for you in case I need them for myself
  • Cars with sun tops are for drivers with bald pates
  • Why should a fact of life always be something nasty? Why can’t it be something good
  • When life is less than thrilling, even French lessons can give me a frisson
  • Anticipation is better than the real thing, but I’ve always had inferior taste
  • I sell the best hours of my life @ $100 per hour for 8 hours a day. Many things sell for a lot more
  • We waste most what we can least afford — Time
  • Enemies should be treated like termites. Send for the exterminator
  • Insecurity is declaring you aren’t free to accept an invitation — before you’re even asked, for fear you won’t be asked at all

More from yesterday’s musings

bring me flesh and bring me wine
today i must celebrate
for i’ve been liberated
we must cauterise to heal you say
therefore i’m well again
not healed. just a well
where the wound had been
no scars to show the pain
just rawness etherised
now and forever

i will fold you away
like last year’s dress
which has lost its chic
send it to some
charitable cause
till next time needing a dress
i hunt vainly
on the rack
envying your present owner now

when i say goodbye to you
it’s like closing a long-read
which i’ve failed time and again
to reach the end
i start out hopeful
familiar words lines paragraphs
the read pages accumulate
difficult phrases
become familiar with
each re-reading
but somehow i don’t get
the halfway mark
i relive each scene
each character
then the narrative peters
like our story
which has no end
because we never got that far

… and I wrote this

Among the decades’ old papers I was going through in recent days to double-confirm that they can be discarded, I came across some of my own “poetic” efforts…

Here is one:

have I crossed so much water
only to come to a dead land
arid and barren of meaning
this stony ground will shed no tears for me
or breed fresh hope
of green tomorrows
I’m a cast off dried leaf
drifting in the autumnal air
the fag-end of a burnt-out spirit
to be discarded with the morning trash
like a Schweppes unreturnable bottle
I have no home
empties belong nowhere…

And who wrote this?

In this life
I am your love
And in the next
And the next
In each life
We forfeit
The next
I was snail
I was algae
I was fern
In each life
You are my love
The chalk bed says
The limestone says
We will never be
Man and woman
We will never be
We may never meet as man
And woman
But at each terminal
Wait for me

At the source of fire
The source of water
Where all sources meet
In the hollow where we were
There was a man
Before he was fern
Before he was algae
Before he was coal…

Wait for another
My love
It will be me

Who wrote this?

Found this today among the papers I was shredding. Hand written by me. Must have copied it from somewhere but Googling yielded no results….

The greatest pleasure of life is love
The greatest treasure contentment
The greatest possession health
The greatest ease is sleep
The greatest medicine is a true friend
And the greatest power is to have them all