People say ‘wozup? You look a bit down. A bit tired, a bit sad, a
bit blue …’
Well, if I wasn’t those things before, I am now. Thanks a mil.
Look, it’s just the way my face sits. My resting face. My private
face. My room-service-sign face saying PLEASE DO NOT DISTURB THE FACE.
My face is happy to look sad. Sometimes. Doesn’t mean I am. But
even if I am, please don’t bum my sadness out. I’m happy to enjoy my sadness.
Undisturbed. Just me and my sad face.
No, I’m not consistent. I’ll take compliments. Say I look great –
skinny, youthful, vital. I’ll lick you like a puppy.
Still it irks me. People try and read you like an emoji – ‘there
there, chin up, never mind, might never happen …’
I’m so glad you asked, Mr Sandwich Hand. You saved me from
a moment of quiet reflection. Maybe tinged with a bit of nostalgia. Hard to put
my finger on really. Shall we say a wistful whisper of regret, with a delicate
filigree of yearning? Something ever-so-slightly rueful? Not really maudlin. More
a light dip into melancholy. A plangent little shiver. A slight frisson of some
lost past gently goose-pimpling the skin of the soul?
Know what I mean?
A little pebble plopped in the millpond of my being, sending tiny
ripples spreading out to gently kiss and lap at the soft mossy verge of the
I dunno, how would you say?
A sort of softly swelling glow. Like sliding into a warm bath of
mare’s milk coco. Or settling into the mantric hum of an ancient fridge in the
dawn kitchen of an old beachside weekender
or trancing to a wood fire, dying with the gentle crackle of a
Noel Coward 78 in the grate of a little log cabin by a lake in a wood, with you
a sweetly bruised plum in the palm of evening, and just the chit-chitting of a
lone cricket in the knotty pine floor boards.
Know what I’m saying?
A bit Whitman. A bit Thoreau. A bit Disney too, to be honest …
actually, now I think of it, these are someone else’s fantasies. These pictures are just composite archetypes from the collective unconscious, ethereal vapours
from the Lost Property Office of the soul …
… but anyway, that’s what I was thinking when you said ‘why the
But look, if you’re really worried about my ‘wellness’, I’ll get
into my clown gear. I’ll ride a tiny novelty unicycle on a highwire over a pit
of flaming meth junkies while pulling a bunch of Gerberas from my bum and singing
the best of James Brown …
No, no, please don’t go! I want to reassure of my emotional
equilibrium. I won’t feel truly happy until I’ve convinced you that on the
inside I am actually feeling delinquently overjoyed, just internally bursting
with mirth and yuckety-yuk good cheer. So I’ll give you a joke:
This woman makes jam. All kinds of jam. Strawberry jam, blackberry
jam, dandelion jam … All her life she makes jam. But one day she says I’m sick
of all these old jams. I want to make a new jam. So she gets her hamster,
sticks it in a blender and turns it into jam. And it tastes … disgusting. So
she tips all this hamster jam on the garden. A week later all these tulips
spring up in the place she tipped the jam.
Anyway, this guy’s walking past her yard. She says to him ‘look!
Just look at all these tulips! Where did they come from?’ The guy says ‘oh
yeah, didn’t you know? You get tulips from hamster jam ……………………………!!!’
TULIPS FROM HAMPSTER JAM!!!?
… Ya see, the reason that joke’s hilarious is because there’s this
old Max Bygrave’s song called Tulips From Amsterdam. (No one remembers
it though). And what I did, see, how I engineered the joke, was I replaced the
word AMSTERDAM with HAMSTER JAM. (Of course you shouldn’t explain
a joke. Take it apart, expose its delicate mechanisms, it’s like killing a
… Hey wait! Where are you going? I haven’t finished. Come back!
You’ve got something on your face … It’s called a nose! (Yeah, I do dad
jokes too). Hey, wozup? You look a bit down? Cheer up, smile. Might
I ask the stars is there ever a right moment no
good asking the moon it just questions the tides The moths are waking They
leave the cool of cave take to the night skies travel the migratory route Lay
their eggs Die The pupae hatch navigate the same path to the Alps gather in the
billions cavern cavity crevice On the way they may divert block the light
The solar panels open the energy is ready push the boat until the sand it never was so hard Mars is a comedy it keeps on trying checks the butterflies it still needs guitars everybody wants to play now it starts to rain another whisky please these dreams of violence what was I thinking where was I going
Where a new goat resides a couple properties away, chortling & the evening goods train races through screaming about time and money (and no one cares it's gone) I’m sitting out the back smoking after creating my garlic ginger soup which simmers while a cicada rattles & I bide my time making up poems