The white wall
To begin a new cycle is hard not much happens around here, the street is the same as yesterday Rui, the English, is still working the till at the local supermarket, smiles, speaks upper-class English, And carries a secret, I would like to know about
I think he is from a wealthy family, but a scandal broke out, he made the housemaid pregnant, and in his circle, it was seen as the apogee of horror, or he was involved in financial fraud and had to leave, hide, and change his name to Rui
At lunch, in the café on the first floor of our building, the old couple sat. The man, who is in love with my wife came over for a chat, and his wife smiled she knows her husband was useless, as for me. How can I be jealous of a man who is older than me?
Nothing else happened that day except for Trump, who wanted The Panama Canal and Greenland too, this pathetic, old President with his blond hair trying to look young, but he is not fooling us, this idiot trying to buy Gaza and move the population to Egypt
Then it was late afternoon and time for a nap
The Blackness And The Hard Labor Of The Housemaid
Store up the spasms of the low rims of busy suns
trudging work tills the upheaval of ragged soil
and what of shadow hours, sweat and hard toil
does indifferent soil its gasping unholy vomit spill
she folds the clothes and then she falls asleep.
Trudge the hours and crack the unwilling stones
as her shadow walks into bars of uneven ethereal mists
the dark red rouge smears in round about shy patterns
she wonders, where does brown dung of yesterday hide
She slaves as a worker, her tired muscles cramp
her mind drifts and then it accuses her of nothingness
today is for work, tomorrow the mice may play
her work is as ancient days a drifting into noon
she is bent as a scornful indifferent boothill
as she finally stops, yes stops, to dare to go to sleep.
Robert J. Lindley, Verse
June 2nd 1972
Note: My new girlfriend's mother is a housemaid. Works 6 days week about 12 hour a day/
A photographer of Indoor Sports
Found himself dragged through the lower courts
The hotel said
He filmed their bed
When a buxom housemaid dropped her shorts
Did the maid ever tell you
To wipe off your younger sibling's poop from the tiled floor?
Did she- that worthless human- ever tell you
To wash the giant saucepan
in which last night's millet was mingled for supper?
You clenched your fist in defiance,
You darkened your face with a frown, tough enough to ignite a thunder strike,
The clouds howled,
And grumbled in your favor
Don't do her work, they seemed to urge you.
***** is nothing more than a housemaid, you said to your fuming self.
***** is paid to do all this work.
She pockets a hefty sum of money at the end of every month.
To wash saucepans.
To clean plates
To give leg, once in a while, to Daddy
When Mommy is in the labor suite,
Birthing another human being.
Daddy emerged from his bedroom
Where he'd been for a wanking session
Found you and the maid- his maiden- on the verge of eating each other up.
He flexed his biceps
Stuck his index finger out
Pointed at the darned saucepan
Pointed at you
You saw it in his eyes,
The maid was his maiden.
The tantalizing housemaid
comes in swinging her waist,
to serve me breakfast.
But it is not the meal
she wants me to eat!
It is not the service she renders!
The frog in me frog-jumped
and my heart fled as a coward
to where I dig with pens
leaving breakfast stranded
as a pool of water in pot-hole
in the middle of a tarmac road.
I know an island - know it well
Seen it in my mind's eye
It's a paradise sure as hell
An' I don't ask it why
It's a calm place where sand don't blow -
Water holes don't run dry
Cattle go where they're 'sposed to go
Grass is always knee high
My island has a blonde or two
A brunette by the sea
One cowboy, cook, an' housemaid too -
A bartender and me
On Fridays my boat leaves the dock
I fish 'til Monday morn
No need to worry 'bout the stock
The fields are full of corn
Come Spring no roundup needs doin'
Cows come in on their own
They bring new calves, proudly mooin'
To show that they're hi-tone
But that's a place that's in my mind
An' I may never see
Right now I'm kinda in a bind
God have mercy on me
My windmill's broke and suckin' air
A cow's stuck in the mud
A coyote's standin' over there
Sniffin' for chicken blood
I think about that blonde or two
Just waitin' on my isle
Then hear that muddy cow say moo -
I'm stuck here for awhile
June 6, 2016
I'm writing a torrid love story,
Full of scandle and intrigue and sex,
About film stars and beautiful people,
And who goes to bed with who next.
Their clothes are by famous designers,
They wear diamonds and mink and real pearls.
Their hair is just perfectly coiffured -
And that's just the chaps, not the girls!
The hero's in love with his uncle,
And his wife's had an implant or two,
Grandfather has married the housemaid,
He's eighty and she's twenty-two.
When it's published I'll make lot's of money,
But just for a while, till I do,
I'm a little bit short on housekeeping -
Can you lend me a fiver or two?
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