Here’s one for no reason in particular.

I am seeing a few people post poems that they wrote ‘a year or two back’ so I thought, by way of contrast, I’d post something that I wrote ‘about two minutes ago’. The lack of editing probably shows.

It’s about unfulfilled love, which is a sort of favourite theme of mine – sometimes there is something more beautiful about a love that never happens than one that actually does.

I seem to recall that The Rolling Stones had a bit of success with something that started in a similar fashion, some years back. I will pass some of the royalties from mine on to them in acknowledgment.

***

Never mind my satisfaction

I can’t get me no romance

My love life’s seen no action

It’s a tragic circumstance

There was no lacking of attraction

From the very first dance

But I couldn’t get no traction

I won’t get no second chance

*

The girl was kind of pretty

Kind of heavy round the hips

With greenish sort of eyes

And pinkish sort of lips

Her voice was like a trumpet

And she smelt like fish and chips

I was blinded by her beauty

She was some sort of eclipse

*

I asked her if she liked me

She said I was OK

I asked her if she’d kiss me

And she said, “No. Not today.”

I loved her, and I told her

But it was not the thing to say

I yearned so much to hold her

But alas. She got away

*

She was attracted to another

And upon that fateful night

They were like sister and brother

It was love at their first sight

I thought that they might just be friends

But I was lacking in foresight

He said they were a perfect match

She said that he was right

*

She looked at him so sweetly

She gave a pretty pose

He looked back at her lustfully

His eyes took off her clothes

I asked him not to date her

Then he punched me in the nose

She was pregnant two days later

I guess that’s how it goes

***

I have spoken before about the creeping suspicion that I am in the early throws of dementia. I forget an awful lot of things (I have a lot to remember, mind you) and I suspect that I might be a bit repetitious from time to time – rendering my present self even more boring than the previous one.

I opened up my computer today and the word processor asked me if I wanted to save or delete something. The fact is that I can’t remember even writing it. The words sound like mine and they are familiar, but I do not recall actually arranging them. The possibilities are as follows..

1. I wrote them for someone and forgot to send it to them

2. I wrote them for someone and sent it to them but forgot that I had done so

3. I wrote them and published them here

4. Both (2) and (3)

5. I wrote them in my sleep

All 5 options suggest a certain level of mental deterioration but I apologise for now repeating them if any of the first 4 options apply.

***

Our arms, our legs, our minds entwine

We dare to bare our souls divine

We take our poison with our wine

Dying slowly. Feeling fine

Slowly. Slowly. Little death

This final touch. This final breath

This final moment. Final kiss

We dive into the great abyss

We shed our skin. We cannot hide

Our love. Our happy suicide

***

Esther recently made another call out for limericks. Yesterday (or was it the day before?) the prompt was ‘wrong’, and since so many people find most of what I write to be, in many ways, wrong, she seemed to be calling my name.

I sent her a couple and, for the sake of appearances, present one of them again here. Though slightly altered in order to fight off boredom.

A note of explanation. I know it wasn’t yesterday or today that I wrote this and offered it to Esther. I found this in my drafts folder. Today. I must have forgotten to post it. Or perhaps I had a reason not to.

***

Is it wrong? Is it right? Is it rude?

For one to spent time in the nude?

If one is hot

I think certainly not

So much cooler than being a prude.

***

The words ‘hot’ and ‘cool’ may be taken to suggest double meanings. I will leave it to others to decide if that is appropriate.

I’ll grant you that it’s not 18th century poetry, as was suggested here. It’s a bit of a stretch to call it poetry at all.

As usual, it’s just whatever comes out of my head that requires the least possible effort. My life’s work has been something of a celebration of laziness and, in the end, I’ve not got much to say.

Thanks go to Kate, anyway, for shaking me briefly out of my slumber.

***

An epistle I can whistle

I’m just talking to the street

I can hum it, I can strum it

I’m just walking to the beat

A letter to the editor

Hello. I’m doing well

I’ve got these words inside of me

I’ve got a tale to tell

I’m praying what I’m saying

Might make some sort of sense

Did you hear me say it yesterday?

Was it past or present tense?

I’m so mad. A little sad

I’m so normal I could cry

A little song. A singalong

One more verse before I die

I’m grinning at the sunshine

I’m barking at the moon

My little rhyme is keeping time

Though I’m singing out of tune

Hear me mumble as I stumble

Watch me mix a metaphor

You can look. Please watch me cook

Because it’s you I’m cooking for

***