Tuesday, February 23, 2010

These Pants

Inspector, would you look at this? These pants
Have no belt loops, elastic at the waist,
Or buttons for suspenders duly placed
In front and back, or holes cut out at slants
Made for a rope like those for hanging plants.
I'm worried I'll be laughed at and disgraced,
Because my underwear, though I've been chaste,
Is red, the very colour of fire ants.

No, I can't change that. All my underwear
Is flame red, bright red utterly unmixed.
I don't like muted colours, lost betwixt
Hope and desire, as if one didn't care.
I race the sun, I challenge death, I dare!
Inspector, please just get these trousers fixed.

Sunday, February 14, 2010

Broken Man

I am a broken man, close to the end
Of all things: of my day, my life, my rope,
Free from an untold mass of chains -- from hope,
From fear, from light, from every erstwhile friend
Who succoured me before now. I intend
No harm, no good. If I can only cope
Until my ex has had time to elope
With her ex-priest, my wounded heart will mend.

If this state is rock-bottom, I'm surprised
It isn't worse. Sure, it's unpleasant here,
But certain ancient fogs begin to clear.
It turns out much of what we had surmised
Was crazy. I've been over-analyzed:
I am a broken man, and free from fear.

Wednesday, February 03, 2010

What I Won't Do

I haven't tuned the seven-string guitar
Or fixed the crevice near the thirteenth fret;
I traded bon mots with a marmoset
And stuck my head inside a pickle jar,
Regarded Moscow's turrets from afar,
Explained what I won't do without a net,
Said I would grow up (though I haven't yet),
And put some orange decals on my car.

I really love you, when I think of you,
Which you can see from this bouquet of flowers
Somebody brought you, somebody who cowers
In anonymity. It isn't true
That I don't care. These little things I do —
I've been awake now for a whole two hours.