In steady light rain low clouds compress the light’s dull glare. The blackbird’s feathers sparkle under their fine cloak of minute droplets. His chuckles, shrieks of glee from the clothesline pole fill the garden as he raises his head half spreads his wings in the sensual joy of tiny moist diamonds.
Way back when, in the time before Covid, the Poet’s Circle would meet once a month at The Post-Coital Beetle for an evening of mixing metaphors. Last week after much discussion we had our first session on Zoom and I don’t mind telling you it was a white horse of a different kettle a whole other crap shoot. There were problems of course, some of our members had difficulties with the technology and that was just the tip of the molehill, as one of the poets observed you can lead a leopard to water but you can’t make him change his tricks; but when The Academic Poet suggested that metaphor has no place in modern poetry that was when the spittle really hit the screen it all went to hell in a hand basket and that’s an idiom not a metaphor. I tried to cool…
Your cell phone rings but you’re not listening because you left it in The Fox and Vixen behind the cistern in the last stall on the left next to the condom machine and now it’s 4 am your wife sleeps soundly beside you, in the corner of the room your hangover squats sorting a tray of instruments.
It all began with a few beers, some Christmas Cheer so how did it get from there to here?
Slowly you remember or think you remember….
Did you really poke your boss in the chest and tell him that you know better that you know best?
Did you really down three shots of scotch grab Mark from marketing by the shoulders and proclaim “I love you bro” over and over ‘till he begged you to stop to let go?
And why, why, why did you call that shy Dutch girl from accounting “sad-eyed…