At the Salon

At the Salon

I think the Serpent was a hairdresser
at the Eden Tree Salon
where Eve went one time
to get some styling done.
Whilst he was rewiring her roots
he gossipped about the fruits
hanging juicy and ripe
outside on the tree.

Moreover the day was probably hot
and Eve forgot
to pack a lunch-box that morning.

Sitting on a stone chair
without underwear
(this was before she wore clothes, you see)
the day wore on
and Eve was yawning
by the time he'd finished her hair.

The fruit was hanging there,
the temptation was great,
so she altered her fate:
instead of singing Hosanna
she chose the banana.
(You didn't really think it was an apple,
did you?)

From there all Heaven broke loose;
our modern world began:
clothes, work and babies' nappies—
and following women around
shopping malls too.

Yes, that was a fateful day
down at the Eden Tree Salon.

Pamela's Popcorn

Pamela's Popcorn (27th September)

Oh, Pamela, when did you last serve me popcorn? When did you last bat at no.9 in a limited-overs match?

I respect your cooking, I admire your line, and of course I love your... but... it's your after-shave I really like and the scent of the cream that you wear throughout the day. We perspire when we play,  never shirk the work of the rolling fire, the rush, the big-up desire to be there, to be really there, whatever the emotional weather. We play cricket on a sticky wicket knowing it's always a thrill to score.

Don't tell me the season's over: there's still more: it's only September; don't tell me you're busy; only remember how it was, how good it was. The ball remains clean in the hand, the catch is still in the slips.

Oh, Pamela, when did you last serve me popcorn? I'm stuck in this bar with a packet of chips.

On Finding a Small Fly...

Charles Tennyson Turner wrote a poem entitled On Finding a Small Fly Crushed in a Book, and whilst my students were perusing it I wrote...

On Finding a Small Fly with a Crush on my Glass

I was drinking red wine, you see,
and this fly was bothering me,
circling around my glass,
giving it the buzz
whilst I was making a fuss
shooing it away
waving it away
even if it was thirsty.

I mean, I'm not mean
but flies aren't clean:
they're dirty mucky things
and I don't like them
sucking up to my glass like that:
when I find a small fly with a crush on my glass
all I want is to squash it flat.

My Menagerie of Desires

My Menagerie of Desires

The weather's a dog,
and I'm sleeping with a cat:
as they say in Portuguese,
I'm likely to get scratched.

Her mood matches the weather:
foul. And it's fowl
that brought me down:
chasing a feather
was all my undoing
and right now my ruin.

Maybe it's not the weather
that's the dog.

You

You

You colour my soul
in monochrome
like a pageant from the past.

You move me
like a movie
shot in black-and-white.

You view me
like a low-slung Samsung
video camera
hanging loose from a tripod
in the coolest studio
of our days...

I think you're all right.

But you know,
I've always preferred plays.

insane sanity?

Re: Tiffany. Just a thought.

I think sometimes it's quite easy to give in, to think--whether you're young or old--that your life ultimately has no purpose and that therefore there's no real point in continuing. Why don't more people kill themselves? Knowing that death is coming--soon or later--why don't people go around screaming? There's a kind of insanity about the sanity regarding death. The thought must occur with some frequencey for most people. The Christians have heaven, the Hindus have eternal rebirth. What keeps me going is my art, which is mainly my writing. Whether people read my books now or after I'm dead doesn't really matter; what matters is that I write them. My art is a way of scratching my mark on the world and therefore a purpose for continuing.