There are gaps in the particleboard;
quince wads fill the breaches.
Nicotine newspapers underlay the linoleum.
It's a rented place, he tiptoes
around its yellow layers.
He has a friend he visits on Sunday afternoons.
The walls of her bedsit are paper thin.
She thinks her neighbors scratch on them,
thinks they are writing to her.
She will stand in front of him naked,
eyes closed while she masturbates.
She wants him to watch her.
She's deathly frightened people will overhear.
Afterward, they sit side by side
on the small bed reading the tabloids.
Then they walk to a local pub,
sit quietly in a corner, not talking
holding hands until closing time.
One day her bedsit is empty,
she has gone, leaving no note.
On the other side of the city
he lands a job with a room in a hotel.
His new room is narrow, clean and white.
Bronx cheers, muffled in December
‘The Boys of Summer’ have vanished
gone the way of the playground
ghosts of warmer climes
Slants of ice fill the empty stands
Cheers – or boos – reserved
for vagabonds
for drifting wads of paper
Mediocracy
Along the simple path we plod
Bureaucracy
With a maze of obstacles to trod
Autocracy
Also trying to dodge the hit squads
Theocracy
Steering clear, of banned lesser gods
Plutocracy
Ride on through, wielding big fat wads
Democracy
A minefield of all above, behind the facade
04/12/23
Brown marmorated stink bug
Two days of doing battle with this invading army.
Two days searching out to find where is their hidden lair.
Two days capturing dozens upon dozens of these onerous soldiers.
Two days the battles raged on behind and on the front of my curtains.
Two days trying to wash off the vile stink, their defensive, smelly weapon
Two days, my weapon, wads of toilet paper, picking them off, down the toilet
Day two, in an attempt, searching for mercy ?, from the killer, this brave warrior.
Day two, two dispirit soldiers, the last two I hope, came to me and landed on my left leg,
as if they were pleading, in a last ditch effort, for their lives, the sword struck, in the toilet.
B. J. “A ”2
December 7th, 2022
Wads of Bazooka Joe under my seat
cigarette smoke in the john
Butting in line for some 'mystery meat'
giggling at boys with a 'hard-on'
This was the kind of mischief we made ~
before handguns replaced baseball card trades
Ocher and quince wads
pack gaps in particleboard walls.
Yellow newspapers underlay linoleum.
The apartment is smeared by nicotine
When it rains, a paper-Mache atlas of a blotched sky
can be read on the ceiling.
The window-sill slants, he dares not lean out.
He listens to street fights; imagines gore
seeping into inky basement wells.
Saturday nights bleed into Sunday. Sometime
amid the gray hours he decides to leave,
to wander vomit blitzed alleys
to search a doorstep and steal a Sunday paper,
then he returns to the grimy room
to read of better places
where better crimes get clean away.
He has a girlfriend, one he sees only once a week,
they sit on the narrow bed reading the news.
She tells him that her apartment has thin walls,
that at night strangers scratch upon them
as if writing to her.
Finally He lands a job in a hotel as a night porter.
His allotted room is pure white and sterile,
more a cell than a living space.
If he puts the light on, all that white hurts his eyes,
in time he gets used to it. His mind slowly
sheds layers of brick-dust and smudged print.
I like an empty trash basket.
It tempts me to fill it with wads of wasted effort
In a futile attempt to write the words
That will finally win your heart.
Perhaps when hell freezes over,
But it’s a freakishly warm day in mid-December.
When the offering basket is full
Of ardent vulnerabilities
I'll dump it out, count my blessings,
And start over.
Every line is important
The thickness, the curve,
The swish, swirl, the flair.
The cartoonist stares at her work.
Begins adding designs – shades, cross hatches.
It is not what she had imagined.
She crumples it up, begins again.
And again, and again, and again and again.
She is finally semi-satisfied.
She walks over the other paper wads to get to her scanner.
Snatches it up and adds three more lines.
Erases two of them.
Finally has a finished cartoon
Which is standing on the bodies of all of the others.
She takes the laughter, the smiles, the drinks and celebrations, wads them all up and stuffs them into the hole. She changes the dressing when the patch wears too thin.
The hugs and kisses, all the well wishes, stay a moment, and then slide off.
The warm feelings, like bath water, turn cold, until she’s forced out.
She hopes for change, but hope is a rug waiting to be pulled out, and change is hurt changing its shirt. You smile to be polite, but the elastic string on your mask is getting all stretched out. The ice in your glass shifts as your mind wanders. She waves and your heart flutters…as she blows the man behind you a kiss.
There are gaps in the particleboard;
quince wads fill the breaches.
Nicotine newspapers underlay the linoleum.
It's a rented place, he tiptoes
around its yellow layers.
He has a friend he visits on Sunday afternoons.
The walls of her bedsit are paper thin.
She thinks her neighbors scratch on them;
thinks they are writing to her.
She will stand in front of him
naked, eyes closed while they both masturbate.
She wants him to watch her.
She's frightened people will overhear.
This is all the sex she needs; she tells him.
Afterward, they sit side by side
on the small bed reading the tabloids.
Then they walk to a local pub,
sit quietly in a corner, not talking,
holding hands until closing time.
She becomes a missing person.
He scans headlines, obituary columns,
classified ads.
Her parents live in Surrey,
that's all he knows.
On the other side of the city,
he lands a job with a room in a hotel.
He stops looking for her.
His new room is narrow, clean and white.
He stops smoking;
remembers the silence
once shared.
Comparisons are unerring things at worst;
Every common ore yielded for shinier gold,
And tepid junkets given up in apt forfeiture
For tolerably pricier carats unsullied stored.
Far less treasured lots perpetually stand
In shrouded paths to more pleasing deal,
And more often than not emit lures bland
To fade jollities owners of finer gems feel.
Prudent choosers are harder to hoodwink;
They're grateful to know how to swiftly tell
Vast variance between wee penny's worth
And huger wads quiet past old minas' kink.
They're merrier types closer to Midas lips;
Smarter-thinking pickers noted with strips
Of fair Fortune's higher turns beyond taste,
Loftier than Fancy's dreams and her haste.
With comparative logic one never can err,
Since brighter minds cheap choices abhor.
Gleaming wager’s chart spells filmy odds
And tip triers to toss wee mites for more;
To forfeit modicums of ground for vaster
Acres wider than the fabled Midas shore.
No curse greater than lost chances fair
Baked and gilded to enchant and deke,
Verily sure-win swoops altered mid air;
Glittering talismans foiled in their peak!
Each day under Fortune’s ogling suns,
Gambles’ lusting eyes dreamingly leer
At the cyclically winding mill of chance,
Heavy with sudden wealth's fetish fear.
Even now swift-tossed coins fruitless go,
Innumerable ages after the maiden shot;
And any flopping dice still wouldn’t count,
Till Bill’s vulpine wads trickle in in a draw.
Millions of eons past nature's trite element,
Odds will be spelled and big wins still bent.
Quince wads pack gaps in particleboard.
Yellow newspapers underlay linoleum.
The apartment is a nicotine
an atlas of a blotched sky
can be read on the ceiling.
He has a friend that he visits once a week;
she will stand in front of him to masturbate.
Her apartment walls are paper thin. She tells him
that at night her neighbors scratch on them;
she thinks they are writing to her.
Later they go out to a small pub,
sit quietly in a corner
holding hands until closing time.
One day she is not there.
He scans the headlines, obituary columns,
the classified ads --- there is no news.
Weeks pass. Her parents live in Surrey,
he can't find them in the phone book.
He stops looking for the lost.
Don Corleone
stood alone
a mafia boss
that none would cross
Sometimes bumbles
often mumbles
his diction at odds
with cotton wads
Cause Celeb
24/08/2018
Is celebrity really curse
Spending wads of cash in your purse
Sycophants ready to please
They wipe your butt if you sneeze
At Twenty Seven dead in a hearse
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