poetry


Equinox, September 2016

 

The autumn equinox does funny things to a man

 

equinox-poem-september-2016-low-res

 

I must be going soft.

I saw a flight of seagulls last night on the way home, migrating north in their classic vee formation, and I thought, why do they follow the guy at the front? What does he know that the ones at the back don’t? Are they whispering to each other, thinking, “does he know where the hell he’s going?”

I woke up this morning and the poem pretty much wrote itself as I lay in bed. On the back of an envelope, literally.

equinox-poem-on-back-of-envelope

After breakfast, I was taking a stroll round in garden lapping up the 30 degree heat and untypically British scorching September sunshine, when a hundred or so gulls began drifting my way. They formed up over my house in a great vortex, swirling hundreds of feet in the air, as if saluting me, then made off to the north.

I swear, there is magic on this planet we don’t even know.

 

 

 

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Why do we all go crazy for big ass?

Does my bum look big enough in this

Whatever happened to the cliche ‘does my bum look big in this’?

What I’d like to know is this. Whatever happened to that time when women wore girdles to flatten their curves? And when did men suddenly begin finding huge bottoms a massive turn-on? Or have we always done? Perhaps more pertinently in these days of militant feminism, is it right that many women nowadays actually become more famous for the size of their posterior than their intelligence, their talent or looks in general? It’s a question, right?

Maybe it’s because everything is now hyped to the nth degree. We live in an age of largesse. Of excess. Of riches, poverty, fame and obscurity. Of beauty and ugliness. And a parasitic media that thrives on blowing these things up out of all proportion. It’s the hyper-inflation of all things. We’re pumping our bodies up to the size of our egos. And that’s BIG. Prosthetically-enanced posteriors have become de rigueur, titanic tushes and Brobdingnagian buttocks abound.

In one sense you could say it’s just another evolutionary development. We dress, wear perfume, flex our pecs and primp our hair to make ourselves more attractive to the opposite sex. But why stop there? Nowadays medical advances mean we can take our most attractive features and accentuate them into objects of excruciating desire. Our boobs, our lips, our asses – have become the latest fashion items, stuff you pick from a surgeon’s catalogue like a new pair of shoes.

As if that wasn’t a troubling enough trend, as our body parts swell and expand under the cosmetic surgeon’s wizardry, the garments designed to clothe them shrink to ever scantier, tighter, more revealing proportions. Some days you wonder where it will all end. Women with tits like beach-balls covered with postage-stamp sized shreds of cloth? An ass as big as a bride’s train that needs a golf-buggy to get it from room to room? Maybe these people already exist out there. Some of the images I’ve seen on social media recently wouldn’t look out of place in a freak show.

But hey, I guess it’s a free world. And for all the ladies out there with big bums, I wrote this poem.

 

Does my bum look big enough in this?

 by Frank Bukowski
Does my butt look too big in this?
Chantille asked
Doing a 360
Tyrone shook his head
You’re just saying that, she said
Turning sideways in the mirror
No really, does it look big?
I said, din’ I
Chantille looked at him
Then back at the mirror
Sticking out her butt
You liar, it’s HUGE!
He shrugged, whatever
Awww c’mon hon
I can’t go no weddin
Lookin like I godda goddam beach ball
Sewed on my butt!
Pleeeeease?
Okay, it’s small!  It’s fuckin invisible!
Happy?
Fuck YOU!
On the drive back in
Chantille sat in stony silence
When he could bear it no more
Tyrone said listen
You really wanna know
Whad I think?
Chantille didn’t answer
I LIKE it big, he said
Great
No, I mean it
Wochafink I’ma allays hot fyo girl?
My personality?
Cain’t fuck no personality
Oh GREAT, she said, thanks a bunch!
When they entered the ramp onto the freeway
Tyrone floored it
For two miles neither of them spoke
When we get back, he said
Finally breaking the silence
Do me a favour, yeah?
Chantille’s head swivelled in slow motion
She sucked in her cheek
Look up dat Kardashian bitch
Know wh’am sayin?
WHAT!
I mean check out her google shit
Beyonce, Britney, Shakira, J Lo
All dem bitches
Chantille’s eyes came out for a walk
Ya’ll lookin for a smack here muthafucka?
Got five the most googled asses onna planet
Right there
Tells you all you need know
Bout motherfuckers and asses
Wait a minute, she said
You saying you motherfuckers LIKE big asses?
Tyrone grinned his answer
You bet yo ass it looks big in dat dress
Goddam right it do
Yeah right
Chantille huffed, folding her arms
And turning away
When he glanced in the mirror
Tyrone caught her smiling
Out the side window
And stop askin damn fool questions

 

 

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Bad day at the office 5

Bad day at the office 5 - picture of a rook

My rook, the opposite of Churchill’s Black Dog

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Here’s a poem I wrote a few weeks back, in March, about a low-point I reached at work. Hopefully it’s self-explanatory.

 

The Bully
 

The doctor signed me off sick last month
With work-related stress
I was being bullied by my boss
I’d had some kind of breakdown
 

Don’t get me wrong
Just me and him in the car park
One on one
I’d have liked nothing better
Than to take him down a peg or two
Exposing the little Hitler
For the puffed-up corporate lickspittle he was
But that’s the whole point
Bullies never pick on those
They know can fight back
He knew I needed to keep the job
I had bills to pay
Food to put on the table
Just like everyone else
I couldn’t do a damn thing
 

It was death by a thousand emails
By a million shitty little tasks
Every day, on top of my day job
In his quest to humiliate me
And break me, piece by piece
To prove to his own bosses
What a hard driving son of a bitch he was
Using the ladder of my broken mind
To progress his career up the company
 

Being bullied is like catching a horrible disease
It takes over your life
From the moment you wake
Till you fall asleep at night
There’s no safe haven where he can’t find you
Even when he’s not there
He’s bullying you in your thoughts
That’s when things start to get really black
When there’s nothing else
Except the bully
 

For half a year I sucked it up
Refusing to let the jerk beat me
Until last month, when something snapped
A thousand miles down, at the very core of my being
I was driving in to work
When I pulled over to the side of the road
And burst into tears
I had come to the end of the line
 

I went to my doctor the following day
My story tumbled out like spilled ink
God bless that man, he sent me home
He listened, and believed what I had to say
I was no longer alone
It felt like a huge weight lifting from my shoulders
 

For three days I sat zombie-like, staring at the walls
Didn’t change my clothes, bathe, or eat
Til the tension began to slowly unwind
From the tightly coiled spring of my body
 

That was a month ago
Lately I’ve started going for long walks
Picking up pieces of my soul along the way
Sticking them together
With the band-aids of daffodils
The cries of rooks milling
Round their sky villages
It’s March
Spring is shooting out the earth like a rocket
Everywhere waking up what had seemed dead
 

Today, walking down a sunken lane
I came across a rook in the road
With a broken wing
As I approached, it hopped to the left
And scrabbled up the bank
Crippled as it was
Its life instinct clinging on
Maybe the wing would mend
Or maybe it would starve, or become some fox’s supper
But while there was still a chance
It hung on
 

I emailed an official complaint
To our HR department
I’ve decided to stand up and fight
And expose this bully for the slimeball he is
Even if it costs me my job
He’s in with senior management, you see
They always are
That’s how come they think they’re invulnerable
Well, this one’s got a wake-up call coming
And if I ever meet him down some dark alley
On some distant day in the future
Or in hell, on my turf
He’s gonna wish he’d never heard the name
Frank Bukowski

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