

Today’s volume of poetry was one of Bukowski’s I’d recently bought second hand but never read. Diving into him was like jumping into a lovely warm jacuzzi (where the water had just been freshly added & mine was the only body to have been immersed so it was all quite clean & hygienic thank you very much) — soothing, comfortable, relaxing, delightful, & I wondered why I don’t remember to read/reread my fave poets more often.
With that in mind, I set out to write a Big O poem in B style. I gave myself the added task of just stream of consciousing & not editing it (that can come later).
*****
wedding day goat song
why’d the god-damned
fool girl go & step
in a snake nest
for anyway
it’s the stupidest
damn thing
i’ve ever heard
& i’ve been hearing
stupid damn things
all my damn life
& now the wedding guests
are gone home
& my amphora
is empty
but i’m still full
so i step outside
to take a piss
come back in
pick up the amphora
realise it’s empty
still empty
swear at the
fucking gods for
their sick son-of-a-bitch
senses of humour
look about
for my lyre
till i remember
i smashed it
after i found
her dead (my
second best lyre
obviously i’m not
quite so stupid
as to smash Hecate)
decide i’m no where near
drunk enough
so set out to visit
Calais & see if
i can drown myself
in his ample cellar
Day 6 – TIL the Scots can deal with forgetfulness
title tartling tartan-style
so the Scots have a word
for that brief panicked pause
experienced while you
temporarily un-remember
someone’s name as
you rummage through
the haggis-baggage
of your overworked,
irrelevant fact-clutching,
bewilderbeasted brain
all well & good
tartle is not that terrible
after all — the name’s known
you’re simply having trouble
accessing the correct
datapoint in the outdated
software system
of your cerebral substance
but do these paragons
of polite protocol
these pontificating
Pict-progeny
have a word to personify
that bowel-clenching juncture
when you realise
you’ve already forgotten
the name of the person
introduced to you
mere microseconds ago