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You're going to laugh at this

You’re going to laugh at this

Selected Writing 2001-2016

Copyright David Francis Jeffery 2016

Shakespir Edition

Shakespir Edition License Notes

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

Stuck in the throat
How to meet people
A poem for the Mormons
Monitoring the graveyardpreviously published in The Black Rose in 2001
My horse for a kingdom
The Coward
Hatepoem (2)
Love as a confession
Kiss me before I suffocate
An excuse for the ants
The politics of colour
Ode to a hand-made book
Sitting here listening to Swans
The truth about poetry
How to be dead in the world
The rights of Spring
Tenant
In God we thrust
Prose 1
A long poem in cotton gauze and short ephemera
Sound off like you got a pair
A one line poem summing up all the angst, beauty and terror
Chaste as a mourning blanket
Shorts
Prose 2
Equals
Damage
Two birds, one bush
Knitting needles for attention
Mit navn er øjenvipper
Black but not burnt
A very dry stone in a very wet hand
Allegory
Kate Moss was a fucking liar
Slum landlord
Miss Belinda has a wheelbarrow
A tree is not an awakening
The phone call (Prose 3)
The last poem for today

STUCK IN THE THROAT

Easing down
At first
But easing down
Nonetheless
Do you notice yet?
Like slumber
Do you feel me
Coming on?
Lodged in
I become your next
Commodity
Filling up slowly
Noiselessly
I spit out
With your passion
Can you feel me
Now?
Have I made a
Presence
Of myself?
Water
Soft as acid
Wields upon me
Like dirt in a fresh grave
Pure and hysterical
“I’ll not make
A nuisance of myself
Anymore”
You say
But you do
For if you can feel
Me
You can attempt
To understand
Me
And understanding
Is always the first step
Into cure
For a cure is the one thing
I always hope for
Isn’t that what my
Existence
Is based upon
The impetus
For cure?
Without that
Surely my life will have been proved
A waste
Which in itself
Is its own form
Of disease
But that’s only my
Classification
And your
Distinction
So I stay
Lodged
Unable to bring myself
Responsibility
For my actions
While you
Unknowing
Unaware
Dictate my code
Of conduct

HOW TO MEET PEOPLE

Another honeymoon story

In a Margaret River Caravan Park
Where we pitched our tent
To avoid the cost of living
My wife and I
After a meal and some drinks
Walked to the toilet block
Directly opposite our camp site

In a clutch of caravans
Lies an argument
Petty
Vengeful
Violent
Brought on by the taste of beer
And the hatred of the trap
He’s screaming
For it is indeed a He
All the clichés you would imagine
From a caravan park argument

“Shut the fuck up”
“I didn’t say that”
“Shut ya fuckin’ mouth”

It seemed crisp with damage
Yet every time he spoke/screamed
People laughed
For there was a party at the caravan
And the argument was a spectacle

My wife and I
Listened
Toileted
And walked back to our tent
Also laughing
For it did sound funny
And I thought of the lure of the caravan park
And how it brings us all together
In friendship

A POEM FOR THE MORMONS

He came to the front door
Told me all about
God
Even showed me
Bible passages
He was interesting
But not essential
So I said
“I’m a Buddhist”
And closed the door
And he walked away
Satisfied

MONITORING THE GRAVEYARD

I tried to make some time
With God yesterday
Not much
Just ten minutes or so
His secretary told me
That He was booked solid
The rest of the week
So I hung up
For my job was done

MY HORSE FOR A KINGDOM

Give me your kingdom
Any kingdom, I’m not particular
And you can have my horse
But only the one
For I have
No other

It’s a fair trade when you examine it
I can use a kingdom
Better than you
You can ride
Faster than me
It only makes sense that we
Pool
Our respective resources
I mean
You can have it back
I only need it for a short time
A year at most
Perhaps two
But you can keep the horse
He seems to like you
More than me
I brush him too much
He doesn’t like
My brush

He likes to ride
My horse
He likes to ride
Away
He’s always riding
Away
It’s not me
Yet
It is
Because he never looks back
Which is a sure sign
From a horse

So give me your kingdom
And I’ll give you my horse
And you can ride
Away
And not look back
Because you don’t want to see
What I’ll do
To your kingdom
With my brush

THE COWARD

He once tried
Extremely stupidly
He once actually tried this way
To kill himself

You’re going to laugh at this

He knew he could never use a knife
The coward
Though he did go so far
As to sharpen one
But that was in the past

So on this day
Deep
In a self-manufactured depression
The coward decided
He could successfully complete the job
By dropping a fridge on his wrist

This he actually did

And of course it did not work
Which anybody could’ve told him
He hardly even bled
But he still has the scar
And he’ll show you if you ask him

That was his last suicide attempt
But not his last self-made depression
He’s still a coward
Just not so stupid

Even his folks didn’t know about that one

HATEPOEM (2)

We never fought
Physically
But I wanted to hit her
Many times
The only thing that stopped me
Fear
Fear of being caught
And the repercussions
Her family
My family
Jail
Me
I wonder though
If I had’ve hit her
Would she actually have done
Anything?
Would she have told
Her parents?
The police?
My parents?
Her friends?
Because they were always
Her friends
Never
Our friends

I know it’s crass
But I was always shit
Especially at the mind-game thing
She had nine years head start
And a father
Who brought her up
In the ways of mind-game
Procedure
So I was always wrong
Always to blame
Always irresponsible
And I was
Many times
More times than I’ll admit
Or even recall
But then
One-sided blame
Isn’t that all part
Of the mind-game experience?
Either way
I couldn’t win
Could barely compete
So I wanted to hit her
Just to shut her up
For a while
Is that really too much to ask?
I didn’t want to kill her
Just pound her into
Unconsciousness
Just for some peace
If only for an hour
She’s lucky I rarely drank
Not as lucky as me

I started coming home later
To avoid the news
Of what I’d done wrong that day
An effective tactic
If only in my mind
When I was tired
I felt like hitting her more
Or easier
I forget which
So eventually
I went out every night roaming the streets
In an effort to wear myself
And her
Out
If she was asleep when I returned
It was a bonus
If not
It didn’t matter much
For I soon was

The feeling
Of wanting to hit her
Never eased
Just ebbed
Returning in my dreams
Where I could expose myself
With impunity

LOVE AS A CONFESSION

Is there a doctor on the other side?

I talk
We talk
It’s all the same; there’s nothing new
Who listens?
Do you think you could
Day after day?
The petty crimes
The amorphous lies
How’s your faith these days?
If a job’s worth doing
Then maybe it’s a career
And if it’s a career
Then it’s worth time
In sin

It doesn’t get any better than this
Which is more cause for alarm
Than those last two
Clichés

Who knows?
Maybe it’s so much better
Nobody ought to
Maybe a glimpse
Persuades the death

Less than a shell
More than a question
The door opens
And she exits
Happy
Content
At peace
Then the light goes on
And the next to ask
Takes the seat
And the panic returns

Is there a doctor on the other side?

KISS ME BEFORE I SUFFOCATE

My pen leaks too much
Makes it harder to write
Trying to avoid the smudges
But there’s beauty in a smudge
If the angle’s right

I know this is about you
But it’s hard to be clear
When my feelings are so strong
And decided
I hear you sleep
The words not for me
But FOR me
Your face a smirk
Of satisfaction
Not for me
But FOR me
Like a smudge
A smudge black with true beauty
As my feelings
For you
All for you

The time passed long ago with the decision
Never in doubt
If the asking came
But it didn’t for
It didn’t have to
Just the realization
Like a smudge after ‘the’
And the clarity –
Yes
When the time came to draw true breath
There could only be one

Yes

So kiss me before I
Suffocate
Because my pen leaks too much
And the ink runs
And causes the words to smudge
Into beauty

AN EXCUSE FOR THE ANTS

It’s hard to stay awake
But I force myself
Because the work is all that’s left
All that’s important
For without the work
There can be no success
At least
Not a chance
So I sit here
Boil the water
Make coffee
And write this in an attempt
At inspiration
And to stave off
An unwarranted grief
And the dishes

THE POLITICS OF COLOUR

These colours leave me in suspension
For the politics of colour
Are both cruel
And beautiful
You know the sound
Of flames dying?
I’m not going to outline them
That’s the first mistake
We all fall into
And it’s a bad idea
To fall into any mistake
If it can be avoided
And me
I’ll avoid any responsibility
Especially colour
It’s not bigotry
It’s select preference
Some people don’t look good
In white
Which isn’t technically a colour
But I can’t remember
What my science teacher told me
It was
Something simple, I’m sure
Something that left me
In suspension
And encouraged the politics
To become the pointless argument
That I could never
Contribute to
Because colour fascinates me too much
And politics
Not at all

ODE TO A HAND-MADE BOOK

The feel of this paper
Makes putting down the ink
A difficult task
I feel like I’m molesting it
This beautiful, hand-made paper
In this
Beautiful
Hand-made book
I feel like I should be writing
Some classic tome
Something that will live
Through the ages
Rather than just something
That will never be seen
But
You have to take what you can get
I suppose
This paper
This book
Has been given to me
And I can only do
What I can only do
And if that’s a violation
Then that’s just going to have to do
Sure it’d be awesome
If I had some epiphany
Some force of inspiration
And had turned this book
Into a new epic
Homeric
Heroic
Justified for the paper
Because
This paper
This beautiful, hand-made paper
Deserves inspiration
It deserves greatness writ upon it
Not just some scribble
From a half-baked poet
Filling in time before he goes
To work
But that’s all it’s getting
Because I have nothing else
No inspiration
No epiphanies
No greatness
I can only do
What I can only do
And
For now
For this paper
That will just have to be
Enough

SITTING HERE LISTENING TO SWANS

The voice is soothing
Like antiseptic
Forced out of places
I don’t believe I’d be welcome
If I could summon the courage
To venture out

The wait for death
Not as painful
As the living through
Generations
Respect built on the premise
Of a blacker sun
And a diamond shaped
Agony

See, the sun does come through
Illuminating my grey fence
And drying my clothes
From a sweat that knows
No periphery

Swans fade out again
And are replaced
By more Swans
Fading in ever more slowly
Than before
And with a different voice
Still soothing
Though more like distance this time
Like echoes

And as I listen
Surprisingly
I don’t feel like
Killing myself

THE TRUTH ABOUT POETRY

Gregory Corso once said
“The opposite of poetry
Is hypocrisy”
What a stupid fucking statement
Poetry IS hypocrisy
Who writes truth in poetry anymore?
Who ever fucking did?
Poetry is used to hide hypocrisy
Always has been
You only have to read
To be convinced of that

The only true poet I’ve ever met
Was my mechanic
Who said
“I’ll fix your car for $600”
Which was the fucking
Truth

HOW TO BE DEAD IN THE WORLD

Wake in the morning
Buy a hammer
Break all your mirrors

THE RIGHTS OF SPRING

I’m a little numb
I feel like charging everyone
For my worldly advice

There’s nothing that can’t be fixed
With a can of beer
A screwdriver
And a vision
A vision of Spring
Of newborn hope
And fresh dreams
But fuck that
All Spring wants
Is to live as mediocre
And banal a life
As the rest of us
Not held up a God
Of all new births
Not made the scapegoat
For a new start
For fresh dreams
For new crops
All Spring wants
Is the right to be left
Alone

I was walking home today
Carrying three bags of shit
And waving off the flies
While my dogs walked on
And I thought
How appropriate
The perfect summation of
My life
Me
Carrying three bags of shit
And waving away the flies
Better to let them settle
Finish the job
Lay the maggots
Before I do
So forgive me
If I seem
A little numb
For it has only just occurred to me
That my life
Has always been me
Carrying too much shit
And not allowing the flies
To do their job
I’m a dreamer you see
Always have been
Always will
Always must
No one can carry shit
Without a dream
Not for three bags anyway
They do you in the end
The flies
So the dream must hold
Or the brain meets death
As the maggots meet life

I’m a little grey
Too sick
Sick of my own advice
Sick of my only dream
Sick of me
Carrying the shit
So long
So
I give it up
I give it up to you
I declare myself Spring
And ask
Only ask
Quietly
To be not made the scapegoat
To be not made anything
To be left
Alone

No more shit

TENANT

The street where you live
Sits on the hill
Behind the hospital
Beside the jail
In front of the petrol station
A small street
Barely a road
But a street in the book
I still have the key
So I can’t have broken in
Like you probably would say
Were you awake
I only came to read your mail
Well
Our mail
As it once was
You don’t even know
That I still have the key
I’m not afraid
That you’ll wake
I’m less concerned
With that
As I am
About how I’ll remove the blood
From my shirt

IN GOD WE THRUST

Listen Israel
He said as the other
Smoked the last cigarette
They possessed
Things have a certain
Need
Of changing

Things?

Things Israel, things

Go on
Inspire me

Comfort, for one

You mean alcohol

The wine, yes

You think stopping
Is the answer?

I believe change
Is the key

So they changed one God
For another
But the sex was still bad

Just when you thought it was safe to go back into a gesture, the train arrives with another thousand questions unanswered. Who will talk? Where would be ok? How can it be compromised? And so on and so forth, leading – inevitably – to the conclusion: no one really knows. This is what they want you to believe when, in truth, they just don’t want you to know. Oh, there are answers, believe me. There are answers coming out of every pore, fibre and hairline. But if you think you’re going to get an answer – well, don’t be holding anything too tightly. The masquerade is not called that because it’s a funky name. There are answers; there are answers and there are answers. The choice is yours but, just remember, no one here is actually willing to give you a choice. You have to take it.

And that’s when the first hit became a sauna.

A LONG POEM IN COTTON GAUZE AND SHORT EPHEMERA

Who is this bride of Christmas
That kneels before me?
The one asking for suture
The one asking for table lamps
A black sky heads toward me
On this Autumn wind
And I’m left with the question
To go out and meet it
Head on?
No
There’s no shock compares with
That first shower
None that I want to
Tap into
So I hang a shoelace
From an outside tree
In the hope it might tell me
A story I can relate to
Any story
I can relate to
But often
These hopes of mine
Go unrequited
And that’s love in a temporary
War zone
Or is it love
That is merely temporary?
Or the question
Merely supposition?
If you know the answer
Don’t tell me
I prefer to be blind
An ignorant bliss
Is a bliss three-fold
Singing a song of Christmas
That makes no sense here
Snow doesn’t exist
At Christmas
Nothing exists at Christmas
We all
LIVE
Well
We all say we live
But living on a crutch
Is no better than living
On a hillside
Either way
One leg is always higher
Than the other
Rolling duels
Serve bleeding roads
And bleeding roads
Run out to somewhere else
Though, of course,
Everything leads to
Somewhere else
A somewhere else surrounded
By something else
Including
Everything else
The jagged records of
Jagged records
Slice open the vein of
Another gold rush
And bring forth
Opportunists looking for
Opportunity
Or redemption
Or wealth
Whichever comes first
Though please God
Make it the wealth
Make it the filthy
Disgusting
Unimaginable
Riches
And make them mine
All mine
And make it soon
Real soon
I’ve waited long enough
In fact
I’ve waited too long
It’s my turn
Says the ant hauling
Three crusts of bread
And why shouldn’t an ant
Want wealth?
Why shouldn’t we all?
First World Problems my arse
It’s my fault
I was born here?
It’s my fault
I wasn’t born an ant?
Well
Maybe
Maybe I had the choice
And I wimped out
Wouldn’t be
The first time
Wouldn’t even be
The twentieth
But who can say?
Who oversees the construction
That we call us?
Who says
You get this
But you
Get that?
If you know the answer
Don’t tell me
I may be disappointed
Or even
Aghast
Then again
The answer may not be as
Surprising
As I anticipate
I might even know the answer
As the tremor fades
And the land subsides
The bride of Christmas
Looks back over all her
Past lives
And begins to believe that
She can see a pattern
Beginning to form
A rollercoaster of emotive
Slogans, punctuate the night
Marble of diluted observation
Woe to thee who pursue
An alternative vantage point
Terror to thee
Who prostrate themselves upon
The altar of rebellions
Juxtaposition
But infinite love to those who
Break down the mantle of
Probable timing
What this means for the
Wrecking crew
Is anybody’s logarithm

SOUND OFF LIKE YOU GOT A PAIR

There’s not a day that counts
As conscription
Not in my book
Though many days
Feel like it
You have to
Massage them through
Try to shine a torch
And pretend it’s the light
At the end of the tunnel
And
Who knows?
Maybe you’ll get good enough
To convince yourself
That’s what is
As for me?
Most days
I don’t even have a torch
But that doesn’t mean
That I mind the marching
Not always
But most of the time
As the days
And years
Grow shorter
And move quicker
I’m reminded
That marching is good for
The heart
And volunteering
No matter the current affair
Is not conscription

A ONE LINE POEM, SUMMING UP ALL THE ANGST, BEAUTY AND TERROR

I did not die at two weeks’ old

CHASTE AS A MOURNING BLANKET

Chaste as a mourning blanket
The cold, wide world
Speaks in dappled sunlight
Of an older vision
A crueller world
A world unjust and unforgiving
Of death to poets
And hail to the average man
The man more ‘real’
The man more ‘honest’
The man more ‘important’
Whose use of words ends
With high school
And whose pride in mediocrity
Knows no bounds
Or fear
For what can be worse
Than knowledge?
What can be more off-putting
Than knowing the answer
To a question?
What can be more cowardly
Than admitting you might
Have made a mistake
Or indeed
That you don’t know the answer?
That you were, in fact,
Wrong?
The cold, wide world
Despises this cowardice
For it exposes the cold, wide world
To the fact that
This cowardice
Might be its own
That average
Might not be as ‘real’
As claimed
That education
And using that education
Might not be the ‘elitism’
It is often made out to be
So yes, death to poets
If you must
And speak of this only
In a whisper
For the average man might hear
And mock
And shame
And you will be left
In the cold, wide world
Chaste as a mourning blanket
And forever asking forgiveness
You know is a sin

SHORTS

A firm body displaces
Water
And no drowning
Can empathise

-

Death
Wrap your glad hands
Around this smoking ruin
And let us all
Come inside

-

Steal away
While the motherland
Calls
For new
Recruits

-

Cinema exotique
The world premiere
Of a long play
By gaslight
In a new room
Painted for awareness
With an audience
Of one
Barely conscious
Of the importance
Of her
Smile

How do we compare greatness in these times of instant gratification and often declarations of genius? When Kurt Cobain killed himself, was he mourned more, or less, than Hemingway? Who was the greater man? Who was the braver coward? To both go out the same way; who will live longer as the years go on? I write Kurt’s name and already it feels like a terribly dated reference. I write Hemingway’s and it does not. Is it because I have lived in Kurt’s time – grown up with him, but have only ever grown up with Hemingway’s art? Would I feel different if I’d lived in the time of the man? I see the greatness in both and think they both may outlive us all, but I’m not entirely sure. Is The Old Man and the Sea still on the school curriculum, as it was when I was a boy? Is Smells like Teen Spirit on it? I don’t know. Should they both be on, or should we have moved to other things by now? To be great, one should last. How then do we compare greatness and should greatness even be compared? All I know is, a lot of things are being championed as great and as genius without any respect to the past or, more importantly, thought for the future.

EQUALS

Breaking china equals
Finished coffee equals
Angry lover equals
Bleeding fingers

DAMAGE

Scars on my arm
Scars on my stomach
Scars on my legs
Scars on my face

Scars of a life
Scars of age
Scars of pain
Scars of triumph
Scars of accidents
Scars of stupidity
Scars of work
Scars of play

Scars

I know my scars
But I don’t know
Them all

Some I’m sure of
Some I can guess
And some
I’ve no idea

Scars

Scars of importance
Scars of inconsequence

Scars

What did the wolf
Say to the other wolf?

Meet you at the gate

My daughter told me
That one
And I’m scarred

Scars of truth
Scars of a lie
Scars of neglect
Scars of compromise

Scars

Who doesn’t love a good scar?

TWO BIRDS, ONE BUSH

When’s my time in the sun?

For people like me
There is no time
In the sun

No glory
No celebration
No cheers
No joy

Just

Life

But life has its own
Glory
Celebration
Cheers
And joy

Not so you notice
But it’s there

So when’s my time
In the sun?

Now

KNITTING NEEDLES FOR ATTENTION

Shocking
But not altogether
Outrageous
The call for laughter
Beats down
The call for calm
As though calm
Is a substitute
For honesty

The schooling
Of a billion dollars
Leaves little
For education
But much for
Agonised perception

So click, click, click
The echoes break
The only silence
The silence of the self-important
Waving knitting needles
For attention
And believing their own
PR

MIT NAVN ER ØJENVIPPER

My name is eyelashes
Yes
You’ll find me somewhere
In the back of your mind
Or the back
Of an abstract expressionism

Either way

There I’ll be
Itching
And crying
And taking a devil of a time
To remove

But that’s the way of me
That’s the way
Of all of me
I itch
And I cry
And I take a devil of a time
To remove

I don’t always mean
To be so annoying
After all
I need protection
Same as everyone else
It’s just that
It’s who I am
My name is eyelashes
Don’t bother to
Deny it

Curse if you must
I’ll happily accept
A curse
Any curse
The louder the better
But don’t try to pretend
I’m not there

Weakness stops
When the last remaining excuse
Lies exhausted
Only then
Can a healing begin
A proper healing
No Band-Aids involved

[Mit navn er øjenvipper
Mein name ist Wimpern
Mitt namn är ögonfransar
__]Doesn’t matter how you say it
My name is eyelashes
And I’ll protect you

BLACK BUT NOT BURNT

The central prism
Stumbling forward
Crucial
To the task ahead
Leaving
Ever kneeling
But not undone
Nor disentangled

The central prism
Shooting colours
Of blinding phosphate
The true nature of which
Revealed in
A past episode
So
Failing the cupid dance
We should all
At least, deny

A VERY DRY STONE IN A VERY WET HAND

Not defiled
No
Never defiled
More like a sunset
More like
A talking book

The archway
A conservative door stop
A pliable maintaining
Not arousing
Never arousing
Hair picked off a jacket
Hair dropped to the floor
A whetstone
Not a wet stone

Language
Escapes the estuary
Rides the dual carriageway
Through the tributary
And arrives
In the quadrangle

Not defiled
Never defiled

ALLEGORY

Spring and grey sky
Shouldn’t that push be over
By now?
Yet it hasn’t even started
Hasn’t even been allowed
To begin

Allowed?
Well there’s a fine word
Who does the allowing here?
The Spring
Or the grey sky?
And why does either
Need the granting
Of allowance?

Strange how some things are
Perceived
But perception
Is all we have
All that is
Allowed us

So what’s the point in
The query?
Yes indeed
What IS the point?
And there lies your answer
The query itself
Is the only justification
Needed
For what is a life
Without query?
What is a life
Without justification?

Spring and grey sky
No bets on seeing
Who will be first
To retire

KATE MOSS WAS A FUCKING LIAR

“Nothing tastes better than skinny feels”

Except chocolate
And ice cream
And nachos
And tacos
And burgers
(Vege and ham)
And fish and chips
And pies
And steak
And vegetables
And coffee
And beer
And wine
And biscuits
And cream
And cheese
And sugar
(All kinds)
And…well, pretty much
Everything

So

I guess EVERYTHING tastes better
Than skinny feels

Fuck you

SLUM LANDLORD

Slum landlord
Churlish religion
Bothered to wait
Refrain
Slum landlord
Quiet entrepreneurship
Racial hatred
A curious mix

Don’t get me wrong
He says
For it is always a he
Don’t get me wrong
Service
Is all I provide
Service
Does not ignore
Or condemn
Or even condone
Slum landlord
Cruel talent

Misery
Versus money
Really
Who do you think
Will win?

Slum landlord
Doting father
Thoughtful husband
Slum landlord

Break with tradition
If you dare

MISS BELINDA HAS A WHEELBARROW

Look at this well-made
Fork in the road
See how it branches off
Exactly
Left and right
They don’t make forks
Like that
Anymore

Except of course
They do

Look how new this is
How it almost
Glimmers
In anticipation
Of your choice

Left
Right
It’s barely containable

Do you know this fork
Miss Belinda?
Has it spoken to you
Of its value?
Of its life-altering
Decisions?

Of course it has

And you
Miss Belinda
Have you considered
The path to take?
Left?
Right?

Of course you have

The wheelbarrow of
Your life’s work
Precedes you

So where do you go?
Which path to take?

Easy

The path the wheelbarrow
Fits down

A TREE IS NOT AN AWAKENING

and so, is that it?
and if so, could it be the solution?
the question
the grievance
the supposition

a tree is not an awakening

a tree is an action
a tree is circumstance
a tree is breath
but a tree
is not an awakening

a dream is an awakening
the out of body experience
the shy glance
from the recognised face

a tree may wave
a tree may grow
a tree may breathe
a tree may die
but a tree is not
an awakening

and so, is that it?
is that really the answer?
or do I presume too much?

a tree lives despite itself
as do we all

THE PHONE CALL

He hadn’t slept in over a week. He heard the phone somewhere in a dream. It wasn’t until he realised it was his, that he woke. Sweat, trembling, fear. He clawed his way out of bed – it was 5.30pm. It couldn’t be? Surely it couldn’t be? Had they found him at last? How many times now; how often would he have to move, just to escape? Please God, not again. Please. He stood there, listening to the ring. It seemed that it would not stop. He picked it up.

“Hello sir, I’m calling on behalf of Cancer for Kids…”

THE LAST POEM FOR TODAY

It will not be about guns
It will not be about death
It will not be about sex
It will not be about cassette players
It will not be about my computer
It will not be about me
It will not be about my wife
It will not be about my genius
It will not be about flowers
It will not be about the sky
It will not be about Jesus
It will contain no mention of the devil
(Except that bit)
It will feature no swear words
I will feature no gratuitous sex descriptions
It will not be about TV
It will not be about poetry
It will not be about writing at all
It will not name-drop
It will mention no names of great artists
It will mention no names of great sportsmen
It will feature no sport commentary
It will not be about the weather
It will not be about my lack of self-esteem
(Thank Christ)
It will contain only one reference to blasphemy
It will not be about the Bible
It will not be about my incomplete novel
I will not use this poem to proselytize
It will not be a good poem
It will be a list
And it will be the last poem for today

© David Francis Jeffery 2001-2016

Other books by David Francis Jeffery on Shakespir include:

 

BORE

No truth to the rumour

50 Haiku

The Unfulfilled

HA/VE

The Anti-book

Reporting from the Bombsite

Another 50 Haiku

The Host

The Cardboard Writings

Refugees

Falling Houses on a Tightrope Journey

The light beside the reading chair is weeping

New Plays

Letters to the Sunday Age

Minor Diversions

Like a red rose named defeat

 

All these ebooks are available on the Shakespir website.

 

Thoughts, remarks, insults and death threats to: [email protected]


You're going to laugh at this

While searching through my shed for something completely unrelated, I came upon a bunch of old poems that I'd sent out and had been rejected. I quite liked what I'd written, so I combined them with some of the poems I'd written this year and, here it is. It also includes a few random prose pieces that weren't fitting anywhere else.

  • ISBN: 9781370855568
  • Author: David Francis Jeffery
  • Published: 2016-11-29 04:20:14
  • Words: 4303
You're going to laugh at this You're going to laugh at this