A for Blog

Somewhere a poet
is cleaning a bathroom.
Somewhere a cleaner
is writing a poem.

Summer forgot to be summer
but recalled
the polar oscillation,
and sent us the chilliest kiss.

Skin has pleats but never a seam.
Where to stop with the face cream?
Where to stop with the knife?
Where to stop with the Botox?
Where to start with the life?

Coins are heavy,
notes are light.
Clouds do line-outs
for your delight.

These girls arrange their legs
like katakana,
and sunshine blues their hair.

Sorry isn’t very nice.
Sorry’s better fat than thin,
out than in,
and better once than twice.

Whatever the place, we’re lost.
Whatever the time, we’re late.
Whatever the goal, we missed.
It isn’t our fault, it’s fate.

Favourite clothes
in fashion forever.
You wish.

Your two-line bio:
you’re born,
you die-oh.

Curl? Give it a whirl.
Shave? Be brave.
Wax? Rather eat tacks.

Your friend on the phone
wants to have a little moan,
doesn’t want a dial tone,
doesn’t want to be alone.

This experience gives you
the experience required
to deal with this experience.

Your trouble, my girl,
is too much fun.
And there should be
a lot more of it.

Parents do
what parents do.
That’s what they do.
And you will too.

Outside, you are
young for your age or old
or just the age you are.
Inside, alive
and forever five.