I envy those who venture forth
into the seagulls’ hunting ground—
also known as the Morrisons car park—
with a Chicken Caesar Wrap
or a sausage roll in their hands, as if they knew
that nociception is not the pain
of appetitions I only know
from a thesaurus.
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There are words, though distant,
that make me weep;
always;
and despite learning new ones,
short of stage directions—
as if coughing verbiage dyed in royal blue were my destiny—
I’m still unsure if the expression I intend to use
is sufficiently peculiar to pass
the ‘neither nor’ mark.
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Somewhere between sustenance
and boredom prevention,
those afflicted with life
must maintain extreme caution
when nurturing trivia,
since there is much at stake
between cellulite treatment
and a game of rummy or table tennis,
yet caught in a coat of my body—
an intentionally uncomfortable
occasional source of agitation—
I could always become sentimental,
which is rather frightening,
though not as much
as questionable considerations
in a world of adjectives
and noughts insisting on writing a memoir
or at least falling in love
while playing youth
despite knowing that I am
just an old man with prejudices,
and only if I get the spelling right.
But all I can do is to be incompetent
so as to preserve the character’s consistency.
If only I knew how to play the piano—
it would make it a hell of a lot easier
to annoy the neighbours.
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How many todays is yesterday worth?
Why is ‘fortnight’ thriving
while ‘sennight’ didn’t survive
the linguistic winter?
What is the personal
pronoun that’s feared the most?
Are all the questions
that wear the shallow flesh
just an orison offered at dawn?
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How can I remember my future
when my past has been gravely misspelt—
with all the hasty gerunds
and coarse-grained adjectives
serving no purpose
other than ornament—
and even rain has lost its subsumption
in such an unconceivable milieu,
so that when I entertain the idea
of using the vested Pooterish umbrella,
I always have to consider the wistfulness
of the draught?
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A creature of the word—
doesn’t that have a nice ring to it?
Who would have thought that we’d turn
into creatures of paper?
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I like the name Paul. There is a strong but warm ring to it, and the way you shape your lips to say it, as if you were about to kiss, sends shivers down my spine. If I had a boyfriend, I’d love it if that was his name. On the other hand, I’ve never liked mine. Every time I say it, I feel like I have a large dumpling in my mouth, and I picture a klutz and a bit of a plodder. Oh well, one cannot have everything in life.
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Why does the word ‘computer’
not have the noble ring of a ‘fountain pen’?
Even a ‘typewriter’ sounds better
than the name of the Difference Engine’s progeny,
though I could always say that I wrote this verse
on my PC (yuck!) or a desktop.
I wonder if the poet had the same problem
when quills had gone out of use.
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Full of words with an expiration date,
like ‘forever,’ for example, and untimely goodbyes,
the undelivered mail, piling up on the top of the radiator casing in the hallway,
reminds me every time I pass by that I’ve always dreamed
of a slice of blueberry pie with ice cream,
and yet with my face exposed to the late winter sun
and a square of dark chocolate melting on my tongue,
all I can think about is the death of Seneca as told by Tacitus—a cold reminder
that life, at best, is nothing more than an occasional act
of unrequited kindness.
