Random Suggestions Poetry

Random Suggestions Poetry

I’ve been fascinated with the relatively recent feature of the WordPress Reader: the Suggestions that show at the top, just above the feed. What’s so curious about them is:

  1. I often have no idea what the suggested keywords mean. Homesteading? Sous vide? Come on, don’t swear at me! Don’t tell me what that is though, I already Googled and confirmed that I’m highly uninterested in these subjects.
  2.  The suggestions are extremely random. I would’ve thought that as all other advertising (which is what suggested content really means), the keywords would be personalised. I don’t think they are, otherwise I couldn’t have been offered Homeschooling, Politics and Toddlers, all of which I intensely don’t care about.
  3. The whole thing is so hilarious! I waste time taking the three words suggested and using them in a poem or something. Like the thing below, which incorporates my latest incongruous suggestions of Beautyyoga and Batman.
Untitled picture
Beauty, yoga, batman 

Beauty is—not a thing
But if it were
   real

It would be
   me
With my arms up
   in a flying V
In the position
   of a tree

Doing yoga
Flying—
Like a fucking
Batman

Weekly Photo Challenge: Silence

Weekly Photo Challenge: Silence

In response to WP Weekly Photo Challenge: Silence.

The words the happy say
Are paltry melody
But those the silent feel
Are beautiful—

Emily Dickinson

18-01-17-silence.JPG

 

Zombies’ Night Out

Zombies’ Night Out

People swarm and swell
And form a dumb mass
Of bodies to fill the train

Their vital signs are sound
Except—they are dead
And there are too many of them
In this hell hole of a train

Don’t they have somewhere else
To be—or un-be—these undead?

Like, I don’t know—
Home, for instance?

I’m open to
Tolerate
Respect
Embrace
And all this crap

It’s just that
I’d rather for zombies
To have their night out
In elsewhere.

Intimacy with Strangers

Intimacy with Strangers

Elbow to elbow | Thigh to thigh
The guy on a packed bus | Sitting next to me
No | On top of me

He’s in my personal space | I’m in his
Hardly humans, more pigs | In slaughterhouse no. five

Thrown together by chance | Forced to intimacy
With strangers | We are

He’s on the phone | So am I
He doesn’t know | I’m watching
With a keen eye | and writing about
Him and me being here | now

Tenement Rules

Tenement Rules

I was on community service this week. I call it community service but it’s in fact a chore wheel where the six flats in the tenement take turns in cleaning the common areas. I hate doing it more than I reasonably should.

There’s no logic in my thinking, still, I can’t help telling myself, as I swing the mop, Damn, I have a PhD degree and here I am, cleaning after other people. Not so much after myself, as I’m not the one who drops chewing gums and corn at the stairs.

IMG_20171105_134820-01
The doctor as a charwoman

As I was scraping the flattened chewing gum stuck on one of the stone steps, I composed a poem in my head. After all, I’m still a doctor of English Literature. I’m also the concierge, which gives me the privilege to stick signs on the board. Like this.

WIPE YOUR BOOTS
KEEP THE COMMON AREAS CLEAN
KEEP THE DOOR LOCKED AFTER 8 PM

NO SHOUTING
NO SMOKING
NO LITTERING
NO LOITERING

NO CHILDREN
NO PETS

DON’T BE A PIG, BE A PERSON
OR JUST KEEP OUT

That’s it, that’s my poem. I’m proud of myself, how well I’ve cleaned everything. You could eat from the floor (if you don’t much mind getting hepatitis). If I catch anyone dropping food or fags on the stairs, I’ll beat them up with my mop.

So I Got These Ikea Glasses…

So I Got These Ikea Glasses…

Design IKEA
Made in CHINA
What the f*ck?

Well *shrug*
Glass is glass
You drop it
.
It breaks
.
.
Into millions
Of shards . . .

Except, I guess
In CHINA
There’re no unions

Sorry about the Silence

Sorry about the Silence

I haven’t been around for a while. (Stating the obvious.) I’ve been busy busting my ass working like my life depended on it (it sort of does). It’s not that I have a history of overwork and psych ward incarceration (I do). So, to make up for it, I’ve penned a terrible pseudo-poem.

I’ve been quiet
Catatonic
Vegetative
Pathetic
Not keen on
—anything

I’m not good
But better now
Thank you

 

An Anti-nursery Rhyme

An Anti-nursery Rhyme

Sleep is when

You’re awake, but unaware

Or comatose, and oblivious

Or dead, not a care

Sleep takes 

The pains

Out of all things

Who’d want to be up

Not me

Let us sleep

No flowers

By request

The Life I Save May Be My Own

The Life I Save May Be My Own

A tiny thing
Crying and cowering
Behind the bins
Is that—

A cat!
A kitten rather
All big-eyed
And terrified

Shh, shh, she said
There, there
You’re good now
She broke

Into a smile

Because the life
She saves may be
Her own

A Miniature Portrait in Pink

A Miniature Portrait in Pink

Peeling pink polish
On a girl who’s been biting her nails
Again
Because the pain is easier to bear
Then


Disclaimers:

  • I don’t bite my nails
  • I don’t use pink polish
  • I don’t write poems