wb :

as far as possible
should be made on a sunshiny day
be careful of them.
they're sweet, but burn easily.
tend to get jammed
and land the maker
in all sorts of sticky
situations with bees, especially
if you involve honey


but the best thing is
that they can be flipped
without ripping the fabric
of anything. also
they are the anti-thesis
of undulating
so you don't need to
run up hills
to go blackberry picking.


don't go bananas
making them; no need
to batter yourself
if you don't get
the proportions right.
it's rare to get
the sunny
side up first time
around

you sat there like an unmoveable brick
wall; you who used to be
such a brick


this decision is final and concrete. No
amount of termite infestation
can crumble it.


the gardeners seem intent on weeding out
deep-rooted fate; decomposing leaves,
thorns in spades


but they leave the strawberry memories;
the seeing red, capped with green.
so amongst the refuse,


i keep the turf wars, entangled vines, and
ungerminated seeds. after the rain,
surely someone


will need this place to plant stalks
again

all plants grow up. unlike
human beings. be they tomatoes,
grapes, or plums, water them
for peace, or the shoots will
anarchy. even so

it sucks to be a plant. you can't
run from invaders, or dance
can't sing in the rain,
zap leeches or jump.
foxes have a tendancy

towards jealousy. but at least
they can eat grapes and
comment on them negatively
all the fruit can do is
telepathy
sourness so they'll flee

Another day, another story.
She tilts her head at her pet dory-
"What happens now, my drop of glory?

What bubbles in your damp history?"
It gulped. She frowned; "You blasted Tory-
another day, another story,

Your fishy life is old and hoary-
And when your time finds Purgatory,
What happens then, my drop of glory?"

It turned its back, the Monsignore,
And took of kelp its inventory.
Another day, another story;

She went to bed and woke up sorry-
Her fish had died, consumed with worry.
That happened to her drop of glory;

She plunged on downward, twenty-storey,
And ended on the concrete, gory.
Another day, another story-
Thus happened then, her drop of glory.

-~-

Surprisingly existentialist, given the silly mood I was in when I wrote this.

Don't turn from the hues in the sky-
Let its darkly purpling iridescence
compose
into a liquid glow
that distracts your eye

From ricochets of lovers' feet,
clock-work crescendos down the boulevard.

You will catch their mingling melodies
of rose wine? candle light? dinners
along the Champs Elysees
As they sweep past you,
and slot themselves places
methodically,
guided by the bored hand
of some somnolent Cupid.

But wait until the light has cleared-
Tune into turgid indigo skyscape
Then slowly stroll away
solitary
from the vacuumed vestige
of the melting sun.

Hey guys, Ryan here. I know I haven't actually been writing here, but I wanted to give you guys a little heads up about a new project of mine before I start send out e-mails.

A friend and I (Matthew Reuben, for those who know him) are working on a new collection of local writing. It's going to be fresh, exciting, and it's going to be published in print (read: on paper, in an actual book). We're looking for sponsorship from NAC and everything, so it's pretty exciting.

Of course, first we need pieces, and that's where you come in. I'm sure all of us here have stories floating around in our heads waiting to be pinned unto paper. Well, this is your chance.

is not yesterday's
orange julius and caesar
salad. it might be the cold gulf
or this post-war depression

it is the absence
of cats basking in sunshine; the
lack of umbrellas on a very
rainy day. it is the unseen

puddles that ruined the best
pair of jeans you owned; natural
disasters, storms and water-bombs.
don't bother cleaning up;

life is just another infectious
disease; you climb great walls
and soldier on. tomorrow may not
see you over the moon, but

you might see some stars soon.

you're full of hot air;
flying high above
many parties,
above oceans
of hair

just be careful of
the mountain-peaks
of the rigs of ships
of the passing
of weeks

remember to check
the weather, mate
for when pressure
increases, or there's
too much

on one's plate
one tends to deflate

greenly glisten in the sunlight;
boldbeaks wing-tucked, beadeyes sleep-struck.
like beached scallops in the seabright
are these senseless, careless ditchducks.

they snooze from dawn till afternoon
and still, their languid sleepwakes’s late.
more endless dreamdoze follows soon;
these birds shall grace my dinner plate!

Based on Malory's Morte Arthur. I wanted to have a go at the Anglo Saxon style, heavy on alliteration and compound words. Blogger didn't allow spacing hence the cut-&-paste. Click to enlarge.

spring came again
with rain in your hair;
tulipped bedsheets on chairs
drying in the sun. without
the life-support of heaters,
the freezer froze over.
little snowmen live now
amongst the fish and the
fowl. they have carrots
for noses; snowfights by
the dim rim of the
kitchen light, cheered
on by birthday cakes
and leftover mold.
i open the door,
but no sign of life
just plastic wrapped
hunks of meat
and their rapidly approaching
expiry dates.

i woke up to a world
in black and white;
knew exactly what
to do. the only shade
in between was chocolate
so i had some of that too.
i could catch words
before they flew out
lighted up like fireflies
stop phrases from
whizzing down waterslides.
i could do anything;
eat fire, change the
seasons, or bring on
the ice age - still the
zebras would always elude me.

as we walked through the jardins des tulleries
spying on lovers kissing, trying to imagine
streetlights and moon as fountains and sun
and children sailing paper boats -


i did not think of the oily fool
twisting things like spaghetti round his fork
and spoon. i did not think of the many-hued
statues filling up the museum behind us


stuck in eternal bliss, or famous paintings
i completely missed; only amazed at the
dinner of internal organs playing their
strange symphony to accompany beliefs


i'd never allowed myself to believe in, fitting
perfectly into the hollows
of the gardens, the morose shapes of trees, the
flowers we can't see because it's the wrong season.

To Alcohol!- the cause of, and solution
To all my tears and laughter on this night,
To all life's problems, and their resolutions!

You ask, my friend, what caused my grim submission
To whims of fate?- Why only my delight
Is Alcohol? Well. The cause of, and solution

To young boys' woes is purposeful distraction,
And that was she! Oh, such a pretty sight
To end life's problems! So my resolutions

Were broken, and I drank intoxication,
I gasped her scent, I called her name at night
O'er alcohol, the cause of, and solution-

Aflame, it came, enraged- our dissolution,
And where she stood, just wind, and winter night,
And one life's problems, and no resolutions.

So drink with me! O, drink to this rambunction!
No better time to glory in our plight!-
To Alcohol! that cause, that fierce solution
To all life's problems, and their resolutions!

O Sun! What wakes your eye each day anew
And turns it over every sleeping stone,
Each lake, each tree, each blade of grass you grew?
What calls you to your fief when winds have flown,
When shadows cross your barony have blown?
What greatnesses your gaze had turned to scry?
What sights might waver your immortal eye?

O Sun! Within your luminous purview,
Out of the clay our shivering limbs have grown;
Those very hands wrought boats from fallen yew,
And where they fell, the seeds of cities sown;
Slaves to your seasons, yet your light disown,
And beauty artificed, as though we shy
What sights might waver your immortal eye!

O Sun! In fear, your symmetry we drew,
But pride our breasts had swelled, and none bemoan
Your blinded back, as all our sins accrue-
The starved and sick upon the altar groan,
While in their palaces, the rest atone;
O judge, accomplice, jury! As we cry-
What sights might waver your immortal eye?

O Sun! Your servants, we, have stared at you,
And seen a haughty king upon his throne!-
And we, conspiring of your power, drew
The fire and the sword you bore alone,
Usurped your crown, your reins!- O, had we known
The vastness that you stared, we would not vie
What sights might waver your immortal eye.

the laptop hums strangely
like a warm disaster
should've known then
that you would
hurtle off-key
once the playlist
shuffles track

count ships. it won't
be easy, for they like
to pass unnoticed
in the night


but they're better
than their woolly-headed,
monosyllabic
counterparts