Signed the papers.
The hospital said “Hi.”
They don’t always help.
Unless you’re drained and parched.
And a nurse hands you a droplet.
The walls have walls.
The clock cooks me slowly.
Grumble, grumble.
When the hospital greeted me…
I had a moment where I felt like I could flop down on the floor.
I belonged.
But you don’t slouch in here.
And if you do, hornets scream.
Signed out.
Took my bag and burning, foaming lips.
I wondered if anyone left a message.
Went home to a harsh palace.
With suncatchers.
Burning, foaming memories.
Signed out.
No one greeted me for a long time.
At least- not like the hospital.
“Hi there.
Set your bag over there.
And welcome to the place where hornets go to die.”
Yeah.
My friends thought I ditched them all week.
The hospital said “Bye.”
How could they know?
A yacht would be the cherry on the daiquiri
but a tad too opulent for me
Give this admiral a sturdy old dinghy
let me row my way out to sea
A mansion with all the trimmings
six carports, servants quarters separate
Then again, with my aging Edsels
why invest now; I’m not desperate
Ah, a round-the-world cruise
just the tonic to soothe
Yet relaxing at home on my couch
I peruse the planet on TV, munch and slouch
So, just let me alone and leave me be
bathroom breaks ~ adventure enough for me
One slouch theory is that
thirty thorny
tin entities perhaps
from Triton (or
from Troy?) have
taken over
other tiny tory nits named Tony and o-
riented them toward a
fictional final era
of human machination
using virtual farce-sens-
ing resister dada in compunction with dig-
ital ghost industrial
simpletons.
He was a charming gentleman and a much liked Prime Minister,
But suddenly insults hurled by the score, some hurtful, some sinister,
Wow, public's choice looks like mickey mouse,
Should be polished, talk well, not slouch,
Burnham watch out, politicians can read you well within global perimeters.
You talk a lot Andy, say things people want to hear,
It upsets me when I hear slogans that merely smear,
Starmer’s ego, hurt with each jeer,
And Mrs Starmer who shed a tear,
Don’t be too smug, many in 10 downing, want your cheer.
As I sat with Edgar Allan Poe,
my heart beat like a so-and-so.
I invited him in for tea
and, as that the son-of-a-gun looked at me,
I looked at him through my filmy eye,
and asked him if he could deny
that if I was anything, I was not mad,
that my case was ironclad.
He had the disposition of a grouch,
but, as a writer, he was no slouch -
though he made it his chosen mission
to exploit me without permission.
"King Arthur, get off the couch...
and stand up straight. Don't slouch."
"Who asked you Guinivere -
gimme another beer",
said the legendary grouch.
Her eyes are like whiskey,
an ocean that I’ve set sail on.
And one in which I am stranded.
Her voice is like whiskey.
A holistic medicine,
Lulling me into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Her soul is like whiskey,
And when I drink whiskey,
I slouch into the bar,
unmoving.
Her love is like whiskey.
Thirsting for it, I bring the bottle to my lips,
Finding it to be empty.
Our bond is like whiskey.
without whiskey,
I shake.
a broken ankle
ouch ouch ouch ouch
on a willing worker
who is no slouch
her driving ankle
ow ow ow ow
setting her back for weeks
accident where she hit a cow
Lazy Daisy sat on a couch
Lazy Daisy was a slouch
All the free money
And all the free checks
Couldn’t give Daisy some self respect
She left at the yawn of dawn
Between fog-densed waking hour
And rain-soused grey morning.
Veiled, her image was laced in silhouette.
She stood behind the fog-rain, a dark
Painting, sketched in black crayons of
Languor.
Her breath, one streak of ink
Of a satanic fresco on a dingy subway.
And the breath of the rain was heavy,
Brewed in hauteur -
So was the world between us two,
Lame and proscribed.
She wandered through flighty directions.
Grouches filled her lugubrious lungs,
Blotches on the sludged track, echoing
Her slouch.
She was one mass of trembling grief.
I was one hulk of ruinous pain.
Between us, the funeral of love.
Threnodies held court on the once soft
Yolk of hugs that sensitized an ageing
Romance.
Dawn darkened with the pulse of grief
Rain pelted the senses held by solemn
Consternations, recreating a fruitless
Void of hollow trepidations.
She lurched and sidled towards the
Crag-lined route, towards earth’s drooling
Beck... and I knew the funeral
Was over.
When you’re making a purchase
And there is a choice,
Do you settle or wait for
That yes-that’s-it! voice?
There are some who don’t care
And will buy the first thing,
Even if it is lacking
That makes-you-smile zing.
Yet others (like me) tend to
Wait for that spark,
Knowing much of what’s out there
Is missing the mark.
But the problem with waiting
Is that a delay
Could extend way beyond
What a snap judgment may.
In the meantime, you’re stuck with
An outdated couch
(Or whatever) and everyone
Thinks you’re a slouch.
If you settle or wait,
Either way it’s okay
For it’s deeply embedded
In your DNA.
We're mannequins peering from a storage
bin. We slouch across from
the "No-Food" paper sign.
Its message sags to a pulp taped to the shoulders
of a glass door. Shoppers,
incoming, their shared orange
squirts juice. Our mannequin-custodial
grins bar us from the lips' sweet 'oh'.
Crowdsourcing emboldens shame, our French kisses hung
on tangy wind chimes breezes tongue.
It doets
In file
Creating improv
Of government structure code
Deep in the winde to pause
The slouch is may, or you without silence
The eavesdropping behind the times
Phyllo
Sweet taste of baclava.
Drizzled honey.
Crunchy walnuts.
Hint of nutmeg.
Warmed to delicate crispness.
My mouth waters.
Eyes light with delight.
Nose twitches in anticipation.
But…….
Here I stand at midnight.
My kitchen a doughy mess.
Rolling and re-rolling phyllo dough
My trials and tribulations
on display with cracked
and torn doughy pieces
spread across the counter.
Exhausted, ready to give up.
The baklava seems miles away.
Time wasted proving I can’t
make phyllo dough.
I slouch in my chair.
Depression seeps into my soul.
Then, with a grin, I remember
my favorite Greek restaurant opens
in the morning.
Leather Chair
My leather chair shakes every time
pus-filled spots develop on
her back.To cheer Mrs Intimacy up (she wed my
old clock last spring. It was quite a good wedding, but it
was too long and I had to
sit – no slouch – at the end of
the warm hallway!) I spoil her with
all the compliments I can think of, and
all the
compliments she can handle to
make feel better one whom can’t
treat their skin disease.
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