Tuesday poem: (haiku)
July 4, 2016
Blue eye of the sea
flutters white eyelashes —
wet sand flirts
P.S Cottier
The poet vows that she will be nastier next time after an unaccountably pretty haiku
Tuesday Poem: Walking out of the bar (Seventh…)
June 20, 2016
Walking out of the bar
(Seventh in a long series of nasty little poems)
There is a place that humour goes to die
like superannuated elephants.
The three part joke:
first this
than that
then punchline.
No final mild tingle
can ever atone
for the violence done to the ear
the appalling cringe of taking time
and parking a huge lump of
premeditation there.
People, mostly men,
dump these jokes like turds
to mark the boundaries of thought.
This is a funny! It moves like a funny!
So it must be funny!
You never shed boredom, m’dear.
You just packed it into a new shape;
a triangle of sludge, which you call
a joke. There is no jazz
to such a thing; no quip.
You play your lardy triangle
with a tardy limping tongue.
I listen for inadvertent puns,
or simply walk away.
Far better rude than bored,
says the woman in the beret,
unbearably self assured.
She’s walking out of the bar.
P.S. Cottier
Over at Project 365 + 1, I just posted a poem about the gym which I like quite a lot. It has the optimistic name ‘Four times a week’. Aspirational, one might say. This was poem number twenty for that project, so I will do another ten days. It makes the gym seem easy, I must say.
The poet I dislike is writing
He frowns, and two buttocks
appear on the outside
of the vertical line
creasing from nose to baldness.
He finds the word for the poem,
the exact right nugget,
and squeezes it from his head.
He wipes it on the paper.
A study in brown, he continues.
He strains towards immortality.
P.S. Cottier
Wistful and vicious
Now from Wednesday June 1st, I’ll be writing and posting a poem every day at a different site, called Project 365 + 1. Here’s the link. I’ll see how it goes for a month. But poetry will continue to appear here, usually on Tuesdays, even if I may lapse into egregious loveliness from time to time.
Tuesday Poem: Malcolm Turnbull’s tie
May 9, 2016
Malcolm Turnbull’s tie
Oh, when I curl up and die
please just let me be reborn
as Malcolm Turnbull’s tie.
No-one could weep (or even sigh),
at the elegant prospect
of being hung as Malcolm’s tie.
Way way way up on high
a spray-tanned face talks
above such a gorgeous tie.
And below that face lies
the endless, knotted glory
of a must-be imported tie.
We’d get on well, he and I,
as he smoothes and flatters
above the silken tongue of tie.
So, when I curl up and die
please just let me be reborn
as Malcolm Turnbull’s tie.
P.S. Cottier
Image of Robespierre chosen purely for sartorial reasons (and for the smirk).
As we enter an election campaign of approximately five hundred years, spare a thought for all the left-wing voters of Canberra (the place) who will be hearing Canberra referred to as merely the seat of the Government, as we go about our ordinary lives.
Many of us as very nice little bike-riding freaks.
(Image from the Musée Carnavalet, Public Domain)
Tuesday poem: Third in a long series of nasty little poems
April 25, 2016
Third in a long series of nasty little poems
Her stilettos so sharp
her brain the chewing gun
beneath one heel;
occasionally a thought sticks.
P.S. Cottier
Image by MOs810, CC-BY-SA-3.0
I may take a break from all this nastiness next week and write a Lovely Poem About Puppies. Or not. Particularly after I just read Of Mice and Men.
PS Cottier 