I wrote this in quick response to Fandango before realising it was initially inspired by Cyranny.

Anyway …

*

Her name was Suzie. She was 23 years old, of ‘Chinese descent’, liked art galleries, travel and fast cars. We had never met. We had exchanged photos, but not even yet spoken.

 

I chose the restaurant.

“Authentic Szechwan cuisine.” 4 ½ stars, Joel, 34

“The Fuqi Fei Pian is to die for.” 5 stars, Karen, 28.

“Not your average Asian slop.”  3 stars, Mark, 42

 

I had arranged for food to be served immediately upon her arrival, and so, when I recognised her gliding through the entrance, I held my hand up to her and simultaneously nodded to the waiter in a manner which I hoped conveyed an air of both experience and authority.

She was a replica of her photo.

Her hair was long and straight and dark and seemed to move as if choreographed to compliment the sway of her body. Her eyes were deep mysterious pools cut into the pure alabaster of her skin. She moved with a calm oriental grace such that the atmosphere itself seemed to bow respectfully to her as she floated across the floorboards towards me.

 

Just moments after she had taken her seat and demurely pushed her hair back behind her ears, the waiter arrived and, with a suitable air of ceremony, presented us with the opening course.

 

She examined it briefly before taking just one chopstick in her fist and driving it, like a spear, into a piece of meat nestling within a colourful array of noodles and vegetables.

 

“And what exactly,” she asked me, in a broad Australian accent, “is this shit?”

 

 

 

*

I don’t write much these days, as some of you may have noticed. Actually, probably most of you haven’t noticed at all. Which makes it worse, though possibly justified.

The problem is concentration. I have none. A good strong idea quickly fades into vague mediocre one and, before you know it, no idea at all.

So it’s good when somebody like Sammi gives me a target of less than 100 words …. it provides me with some chance of completing the task for the 5 or 10 minutes that I remain in the moment.

51 words, in this case, and I’d like to stress that bit. For whatever else it may lack as a snippet of ‘poetry’ it does satisfy the word count criteria without the need for a lot of hyphens or irrelevant words (well – some of the later perhaps).

And, like a lot of actual poetry, it paints a prettier picture than the reality.

*

Don’t you fret. I’m doing fine

Whilst suffering this slow decline

My back is stooped. A failing spine

My liver’s gone. Too much red wine

My mind is shot. Too much moonshine

My grapes are rotting on the vine

I head towards the bottom line

A victim of my God’s design

*

51 words!

I was reading something from Cyranny, about the notion of overthinking, and it occurred to me that there might, after all, be something positive about the onset of senility ….. in that overthinking is no longer an option. On the one hand, there really isn’t time for it anymore, but even if there was, the brain capacity simply isn’t up to the job. Any thinking at all (let alone overthinking) becomes a painful waste of time producing essentially unintelligible results.

So anyway, because she is a sort of friend of mine, I wrote something in response very quickly (unthinkingly in other words). She was, as ever, polite in response, but she wasn’t immediately on the phone saying, “Hell, yeah! Why not? Life is short! Come on over!”

She must be overthinking it all.

But here is what I said to her ….. I think an appropriate title might be….

*

Thoughless

Come on little darling
Please don’t overthink
Just get in something comfy
While I pour another drink
Don’t overplay emotions
Let’s not both pretend
That love is more than fleeting
Or that this night will never end
Let’s not overstate our feelings
Let’s not overplay our hand
Let’s just deal with something simple
That we both can understand
So never mind the change of clothes
Come as you are, instead
I’ll turn down the music
While you turn down the bed.

*

So …. you know …. give me a call ….

Hello my friends. Long time no see.

I was hoping to have something to say, today. Not for any particular reason. I just thought that today might be such a day. But no, I was wrong. But I can talk about nothing instead, albeit briefly.

I was reading a post from Kate and hearing of her new projects (and good on her! I can’t even finish the old projects) but much of her post got me thinking about ‘self’ and of how obsessed we have become with the whole idea. Everything seems to be so much about self-improvement, self-awareness, self-love, self-development, self-satisfaction, self-esteem, and self-everything else I wonder if so much intimate self-discovery may be leading to a bit of spiritual masturbation.

Whilst I acknowledge the importance of looking inward and recognising the significance of the ‘self’ I think it probably more beneficial to gaze outwardly and recognise one’s utter insignificance.

Because no matter how you feel about these things …. and no matter how good or bad they feel to you ….they don’t really mean anything in the big picture. Because there is no big picture. So you can relax. None of it amounts to anything in the end. And as depressing as that idea may sound at first glance, it can actually be quite liberating.

Anyway, I was planning to write something deep and meaningful about our relationship with the cosmos and the absurdity of life. But that would have been just a wank, too. And whilst there is absolutely nothing wrong with masturbation, it’s not really something to do in public.

So I wrote a silly poem instead, to prove to you how unashamedly vacuous I really am.

*

I ran into myself today

He hadn’t really much to say

We found each other easily

I look like him, he looks like me

We’d walked beside ourselves all week

With no necessity to speak

And ‘twas the same the week before

We’re just not talking anymore

I hear his thoughts and he hears mine

In silence thus, we get on fine

And sleep together every night

Around us pull the blankets tight

Sharing skin and sharing mood

Joyful in our solitude.

*