All 2 entries tagged Poetry

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December 23, 2007

An old poem of mine… recalling those art school days in Sydney, Australia.

Down Under



The boys from Turramurra sit on a king-sized bench.
Twenty toes stink of youthful indifference, 
the shit that paves the beer gardens
where the lads fight the dreams 
of other would-be artists;
smacking themselves, 
luring the sweetness
out of bottles 
and nothing
else. 

They leave
tonight like every
other, left with the bitter 
dripping along a dark alley way,
thick with brick, wrapped in canvas. 
They paint a fresco of boyish dreams by 
dabbling their shoelaces in urine colours, 
and then proceed to hang their portraits on
Orion’s belt, hoping that tomorrow’s horoscope will  
have their procrastination synonymous with something else.



May 24, 2007

S enters the blog/blag world.


Never thought it would come to this, S is blagging. Oh well... here we go. An old poem to get us started:

Plus-que-parfait


That’s right, I’m the plus-que-parfait-kind-of-guy,
my best friend is my black stallion Arrogance.
Believe it’s true (the perfect never lie).

When hung-over, I bake poetry into a blueberry-pie
to get beautiful people to flock around my chateau entrance
— that’s right, I’m the plus-que-parfait-kind-of-guy.

And when I bake, I get real sensitive and I cry,
like girls who see me surfing without my pants,
believe it’s true (the perfect never lie).

On our second date, I’ll resculpt you The David on a starlit sky.
Michelangelo himself taught me how to move my hands,
that’s right, I’m the plus-que-parfait-kind-of-guy.

I love ballet, opera, I sing - really boy-band high.
When I meditate, I do it in a Nihonjin-stance,
believe it’s true (the perfect never lie).

When god asks me, “how do You make a woman cry?”
I answer – I just dump her, if she can’t dance… (then she can’t romance).
That’s right, I’m the plus-que-parfait-kind-of-guy,
believe it’s true (the perfect never lie).

                                                            — S


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