My dearest Jemima Journal,
I am sure you will understand.
It’s time to review that top drawer,
Pull socks-and-pants from a dark hinterland.
Resembling a bloated melange,
Absent form, lacking pairing and folding,
A call for a cull I broadcast,
Cruel riddance applied, not withholding.
They must go! They must go! Go they must!
These relatively old worn-out saggy things.
Slung in the bin and out of my sight,
Before my judgement swings.
Wait, why do I ever feel sentimental,
Over losing cotton or woollen underclothes?
No! I want softness, newness and fresh colours,
To cover my bum, ankles and toes.
(British definition of Pants: men’s underwear – male styling/cut/shape)
I’ve not been to one for a while,
A concert at St Michael’s church.
Filled pews on each side of the aisle,
For my sandwich, my knee served as a perch.
Rarely, so very, very rarely do I visit the theatre,
Previously averaging exactly 0.25 times a year.
On Tuesday eve, I upset this 12 year equation.
And, for 75% of the evening, person-sat-behind-me,
You coughed into my left ear.
I KNOW what they were thinking, seeing me
wear a leopard-print shirt.
That I was making some kind of statement,
What next, lipstick – a short plaid skirt?
Conservative society (with a lowercase “c”),
You’ve got to stand down, let people be free.
You validate thugs, to behave how they want.
My advice: mainstream-insiders, just be… nonchalant.
“Ah, but you’re a frilly attention-seeker!”
“You want us to stare and peek.
You’re an introverted wastrel,
An unnatural freak!”
What did I do, I ask, to generate such hate,
To so stick in your craw and exasperate?
I’m just wearing a shirt of a classic design,
No need to pray, for intervention divine.
“That’s an idea! Strike you down, strike you down!”
What response to an attitude such as this?
Since it’s they who free fall,
Into the infernal abyss.
This poem, inspired by a “Hate Crime” experience.
In UK Law, a hate crime definition includes a situation where the offender demonstrates hostility towards the victim based upon the sexual orientation – or the presumed sexual orientation, of the victim.
Heron, I saw you fly overhead,
To describe better I might say ‘glide’.
I’d overslept, got out late from my bed,
O’er rush hour traffic, your wings spread wide.
That long beak is a good identifying clue,
Then I saw those long legs dangle!
Seeing them, made me smile upwards to you,
From my static, earthbound angle.
I have a psycho pussycat,
Black, green-eyed and middle-aged.
Fusses come with a caveat,
Claws and nips at any stage.
*How many times must a writer revise and edit,
Before satisfaction is grasped?
How many times must the same thing be read,
Before an end can be named?
The answer is countless, infinite and forever,
The answer is insanity comes first.
*Ironically, this whole verse written in one single go.
But maybe it shows?
(Inspiration/explanation: The author is currently caught in a cycle consisting of around 600 words, which form the basis to ‘the beginning’ of a new short story – one completely unrelated to anything Dylanesque. Laid on the bed, dressed in T-shirt and underpants, one slipper on, one slipper off, laptop on lap, I just so happened to shout out the first line of this improvisation – in frustration, to the tune of “Blowin’ In The Wind”. The rest, followed promptly.)