I
I weave between the shuffling elderly
Mindful of walking sticks and frames,
Carrying my weekly shopping and bopping
To a tune in my head all the way home.
The lyrics speak to me ‘have we all forgotten that we’re getting old’
But I keep my sights on flashing signs ahead
Hydrotherapy spa, massage & anti-aging treatments.
I read the Woman’s Day as a last resort.
Because loneliness is as powerful as any drug addiction
But just as fleeting as its withdrawal. It’s true Daddy.
On the ads I hawk it up in gobs, spit it down the sink
Then curl back up on the couch.
Didn’t I throw out all the rotting veg and the bad dates?
although
Gunk collects over time and gets left behind.
That’s what I serve up to men.
At night, I start giving a running commentary about being asleep
How the purple ball is there
Whether or not my eyes are closed
And the sparkling jewels in my periphery.
By morning, I go fishing.
Wrestling mudcat pills swimming in the murky depths of my bag.
One, two, three.
Got em with my own bare hands!
Cheer on my processed orange sunset before a 8.00am start;
Before the traffic lights turn green and I run in slow motion
For the train.
Nnnnooooooo!!!!!
But my river still thunders through my ears.
And I’m a matrix salmon leaping upstream
Through the door of the final car against my own rational meaning.
The sun hasn’t set yet.
Head phones
Light bladder leakage
Getting old reminder
One skinny latte please.
II
Naked underwater calling for any buoy.
My rescuers look like the Time Team, digging trenches.
Some play statues like they are recreating stone circles,
Others long to uncover the secret mysteries of women.
I show my hand.
Look say I, this ring belonged to my Grandmother.
She was a severe woman who sputtered out clans of scots
while braising sheep and beating bairns.
Or was it beating sheep and braising bairns?
I wished she was a nymph who bathed in glades
on an eternal spring day.
I can see the tree branches arching as beautiful
as the curves of her body.
I’m passed the age of unused rubbers,
those sticky moments of yes or no,
so fumbling and awkward, my choice to be popular
Cast me from the pool I longed to bathe in.
Spaghetti bolognaise every Monday night.
Do you hear me? (Whose voice is that?)
Her mother (whose mother?) drank wine and called herself an artist.
She could dream of such things I thought but there she knelt
Before her loom, a beach wrap tied at her hips,
A shell necklace jangling around her soft pert breasts,
Each thread quivering in the sea breeze.
My eyes bulged then they squeezed shut.
Mummy I think I can see stars or is my head just shaking too much?
I rubbed and rubbed a rubba dub dub.
He says he is the one.
Her nipples (my nipples?)were smothered in coconut oil.
She was the only nymph
To play a loom as if it was a harp.
Now I imagine you from behind a lace fan that cools my excitement.
You rub your markings into my belly then open the shutters and let the light stream through.
I can feel the market below buzz between my thighs
As if both my feet were perched on the balcony of our hopes,
Our dreams.
Together we plunge into our future.
But here I am still drowning.
Where are all the buoys to my rescue?
Gravity pulls me down like falling autumn leaves
Till one day I’ll be bare like a bag of homebrand plain flour.
and I’ll contain nothing but the key ingredients.
But I can be turned into many things.
III
Like apples,
flakes of peel
and sunburnt skin
scrubbed and washed
Potatoes
dried then roasted
under the light
Nivea Creme to make it all right.
I paste pictures into my journal,
write and think about alcohol while I eat
purple cabbage leaves
then create inspired believings.
I overdose in my imagination so my world
might come crashing down
and I can start a whole new jigsaw puzzle
where a child-like me sifts through the pile
starting with the frame and corners.
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