Category Archives: fangtale “poetry”

Relationships

What I remember from my math teacher
is that x and y relate to one another
by adding or subtracting a number
or even by multiplying or dividing another

part of the problem depends on triangulation
derived by methodical manipulation
and careful consideration of the probability
in restoring an equation to equilibrium

cognisant of any degrees of freedom
count with geometrical precision
like the hypotenuse of a Pythagorean triangle
with often more than one solution applicable.

Domestic Blitz

My kitchen sink is a gastronomic warzone

of food scraps, glass, metal and china

a lingering fusion of spice

drip drops of tomato sauce and olive oil

splattered all over the hotplate and tile wall

like a Pro Hart canvas

leftovers are scraped into the tidy bin,

well, according to Murphy’s Law

some land onto the floor

making a mess of the whole damned thing,

after each squeeze, the detergent bottle bubbles

the last erupting beads of lemon scented liquid

prove stubbornly resistant

spa steam rises making me sweat

water trickling from my brow into the salt lake

triangle at the front of my neck

I suppose that rubber glove on my submerged right hand is a hole in disguise

as my fingers start to swell becoming twice their original size

each utensil blindly lifted from the milky tub is a lathered revelation

and randomly driven about the basin

the last stubbornly concealed from elevation

crockery chips on the stainless steel tap when I don’t concentrate

oops, there goes another set!

plates are piled high in the super bowl

elevating Archimedes principle

dam! (or was that Eureka!) a wavelength spills onto the splash back

and in my panic I unplug the sinkhole

fingers fumbling in desperation  to seal the sucking! chasm

at last, all is rinsed and strategically stacked onto the drying rack

until it suddenly topples over as I turn my back,

casseroles crashing to the ground giving me a heart attack

I wipe down cupboards, hood, hotplate, bench, microwave, oven, sink,

and mop the kitchen floor, but of course

when I take the rubbish out there’s a !@#$%^  tear in the plastic!

FEMME FATALE CLICHÉ

 The practice door opens.

I see her slowly walk towards me,

wearing a short, tight skirt, big hips swaying.

Silk stockings hug her long legs, further heightened by big heels.

She is wearing one of those skintight, semi see-through shirts,

top buttons undone, providing a glimpse of her big chest.

She gives me a sexy smile with her big, red lips.

She says “hi” with that big, sugary voice.

As we make small talk, she flicks about her big, blonde hair.

Her head tips back revealing the translucent skin of her neck with its big pulse.

She lightly touches my shoulder and laughs with her big, white teeth.

Her big, baby blue eyes now look directly into mine.

The health company representative is ready to make her big sales pitch…

THAT’LL BE THE DAY (WARNING: If you are a little squeamish, you may want to look away from this post….)

The DAY that you face a man fixed before you

The DAY that your memory fills with that man’s scent

The DAY that you skin that man

The DAY that you scalp that man

The DAY that you sink into that man’s muddy eye

The DAY that you squeeze solid breath from that man’s lungs

The DAY that you extricate that man’s heart and place it in a heap

The DAY that you bisect that man’s brain, soaking liquid down both arms

The DAY that you head home wearing that man’s fragmented remains

The DAY that you awaken attempting to appease your conscience,

where he and the Almighty is concerned;

 

THAT is the day, Mr M.B.A, when you can rationalise your meddling with my

Hippocratic Oath.

 

Key: M.B.A = Master of Business Administration

Influenza

Lead head shivers

like a chilli Chihuahua

whose blue cheese lips ring

fallen arches chatter boxing beside

a gherkin sandwiched tongue

hanging from a saw palmetto

 

Phlegmatic outpourings plus sinful exhalation

from holey places

incense a fog horn proboscis

dam trickled with descendants

of onion skinned eyes

first seared in the rising desert westerly

 

Socratic paralysis entrenches

the top heavy torso in isolation

wheezing for picrotoxin consolidation

as the mephistophilian virus flew pandemic

opportune to susceptible defences

of living mortal flesh

WE LOVED DAD’S VALIANT®

 

Summertime,

we                                onto                 back

           bounced                      the                    seat

                         

bums blistering on the vinyl

and speedilywindingdownthesidewindows

breathed in the natural air-con,

dad turned over the key a few times

we’d hear the engine grunt,

it took forever to fire up;

six cylinder regal chariot charged down

the highway stinking of lead

dusty white with silver side panels

and a steely grille face,

dad flicked his Peter Stuyvesant® ash out the window just before

it spilled onto the tire mat floor,

mum, bell-bottoms resting on the dash

click surfed the radio

needle riding the A.M. waves,

we porked on Smith’s Crisps® and Fanta®

fizzed up our nose

heads poking out the window

with air gushing into our gob

like a panting Dulux® dog,

us feeling every BUMP on the road

tummies going Luna Park on the hills

and lows

then scrambling into the wagon with dad’s tools

rolling

to

and

fro

and fixing ourselves onto the windscreen

making wild faces at people we never met

like the time we stuck out rainbow tongues at that tailgater,

tip balancing a green Lifesaver®  

sucked down to a glassy halo and ready to shatter,

The best part was returning home

and feigning sleep to be carried in to bed