Gulag Zen

My wife has a bit of a flair for the dramatic. Years of chronic drug abuse have left her emotionally unbalanced. This morning, I woke to find her standing fully clothed at the foot of the bed.

“I”, she said, fixing me with an unnervingly level stare, “am going out!”

“What’s up? Have we run out of milk?”

“No. I am going out. For the day. Alone.”

“But what abou….”

“I”, she cut in, “am going now.”

“Are you taking the ki…”

“ALONE!” her voice cracked like a whip and she was gone. Continue reading

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Love. And bacon.

I’ve got myself into trouble again. I wrote a poem the other day about bank queues. It was silly. My wife saw it, and instead of smiling because it was silly, she decided that I was not nearly romantic enough, and would be writing her a love poem. I can’t do that. You see, I do not love my wife.

They say that the Eskimos have over a hundred different words for snow. I love the idea, and was devastated the other day to learn that they don’t. They have one.

Snow. Just snow. Continue reading

The persistence of touch.

Before I started this blog, I hadn’t really written anything but e-mails for nearly twenty years, so I need all the practice I can get. I swore never to write any poetry for this blog. Here it is:

 

The memory of touch.

 

It’s been hours since we were together

And still

The warmth of your skin warms mine.

 

The soft, slow waves of your breath

Are gone from me now

And still

They stir the fine hairs on my neck and shoulder,

A touch without touching.

 

The weight of you

Still

The smell of you

Still

 

Jesus lady!

It was a bank queue,

Not a conga line!

 

You need to learn about personal space

Before you fall pregnant

On the five o’clock bus.

 

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