Poem #24

I resent the term push-up; it’s

Press-up.

I press myself to carpet with

Inhale.

I hold the contraction, until

Up. Three.

I like to pretend, on my

Way up,

That my breath assists with

The lift,

As if I were a hovercraft,

Exhaust-

Ing through the nostrils, escaping

Trace smells,

Like footprints, or my best friend’s

Vomit.

Poem #22

He raised his wine,

Just to lower it twice as far:

A half-arsed toast.

The window scene

Swung full into view:

Five other guests, who of the botched

Behest, were ignorant. The culprit had

Burrowed his eyes into a stain,

Whilst failure snapped his neck at

90⁰.

He looked silly between the laughing bottles,

Like skinny jeans and gel amidst four

Women in corporate noir.

The kind of faux pas

To make a man say

‘I am just going outside and may be some time.’

 

Poem #19

Surround

The rumours, when they began, were

Sound.

Gratuitous in-wall speakers, every room

(Even the bathroom,

So a piss was no respite).

In fact, the architect had seen fit

To affix one device within the

Basin. Its bass vexed the pool, and

Growled lemony spittle across

My new white jumpers.

I’d flip flop back to the hallway

And curse,

Because I had to buy a new white jumper.