The Exchange

Will they meet in Singapore,

Trump with his VERY, VERY Big Macs,

Little Rocket Man

with his plate of noodles,

and each each with their buttons?

Will they will exchange gifts,

Trump offering geraniums,

Un a basket of rose petals

or a ticking parcel

of enriched metals?

  

Will they hammer out a deal  

to meet again,

to keep the earth alive till then?

Might Un go to Mar-a-Lago,

lose a game of golf and announce

“The deal’s a no-go” ?

This may be the end.

The afterglow will keep space warm

for millennia or more,

the most incandescent  tribute

to screwed up science

the universe has seen.

CABLING HOME

Cockatoos developed [an] enthusiasm for biting into the cables, the NBN said, as a way to keep their beaks in top working condition - Huffington Post

Cockatoos heave eaten our table

digesting its fabric and wood

but now the new national cable

has become their regular food.

They have eaten all of the railing

and flooring that once was our deck

so if cockies are causing the failing

of cable I gloat: “What the heck?” 

They are keeping their beaks in top order

by eating the data in bytes.

It’ll cause a gut-based disorder

and diminish consumer-based rights

to speedy transmission of Twitter

from Trump to his friends Down-in-Under,

but what, may I ask could be fitter,

than thus cut us from US asunder?

So a toast to our cockatoo friends

whose relentless destructive digestions

will force us all in the end

to use non-cable suggestions.

Take two cans in your hands if you please:

link them with string – quite long.

Listen with joy at your ease

as your friend bursts forth into song.

THE GREAT DIVIDE

Where is the man

whose clothes these are?

‘You’re him,’ you say,

but these don’t fit.

‘Because you’re fat,’ you say.

‘What have you been doing, or

for exercise, not doing?

You’ve spent ten years

using food to compensate

for your many failures.’

It doesn't make me feel good,

your speaking like that.

You don't know much

about the dynamics of my life.

We’ve not discussed

money, kids, my work,

the poor performance of the Eels,

relatives I could do without.

Anyway, who are you?

‘I’m your alter ego.

I am the right side of your brain.’

So bloody much, I think,

for the corpus callosum

that is supposed to unite us.

‘It degenerates with age,’

you tell me smiling

in that superior way

I’m coming to loathe.

THE AMALGAMATION

The grinding of the barista’s beans

reminds me of  the dentist’s high-speed drill:

both crush structure to a powder,

grinding, drilling, paradoxically

provoking anticipation of pleasure,

deferred until the brew is done.

or the dental cavity filled.

After shouting and wailing

the baby is born,

after terminal  rattles and gurgles

peace returns as the old man dies.

Bombs cease to fall when the siren stops:

rabbits emerge from their burrows

when the crashing and fires are gone.

No coffee without the grind,

no newborn without blood

no filling without the drilling

yet it is thrilling

when Beethoven, stone deaf, elegantly

composes a symphony without a sound

entering the music room in his head.

STAY RIGHT WHERE YOU ARE

Half-light of five a.m., I reach,
grasp a handle, bring the article to rest,
add a spoon of instant coffee,
start to pour hot water.
Rude awakening:
it’s upside down.

What sadist designed this thing? 
The handle loop’s symmetrical:
you can’t tell top from bottom.

Back to bed –
I’ve always thought, as Churchill did,
rising much before midday
 is a mug’s game.

MOVING ON

Shut the door: no point

in wasting heat –

but if you wish

leave it ajar just in case.

He may return, of course.

We understand. 

Bed made.

window clean, blind drawn

lamp on desk

asleep for months.

Be a dear:

check that it works.

You can see he's been.

That’s his chair.

His clarinet in its baby casket     

needs new reeds –

his books …

The economy, a failed relationship,

wanting to save, back from Afghanistan,

Trump and Brexit -

any one of these may bring him back.

The battery in the clock is dead.

WAITING ROOM

Wait. 

Let my eyes accommodate.

I peer:

shaded forms loom, a chair –

but I can’t be sure.

This has been my journey now for years.

The lights are dimmer

in the rooms beyond.

The switch

from cones to rods -

takes time.  I see

purples, browns,

twilight tones –

a Lloyd Rees painting

from his last days.

I wonder with each move

from one room to the next

how many more there are?

I can only wait and try to see.