things move around

A lulzy jaguar drifts belly-up,
occluding, momentarily, a car
with scarlet wheels and bilious green chassis;
a crazed macaw descends erumpently;
an elephant shields a llama on her lap
as past her shoulder bobs the jaguar.

Untoadlike, trippingly, a fumulus
condenses on the mirror. I recite
the one about the drunken sailor’s dream,
the blackbird one, the one about ice-cream:
words not worth thruppence, so much gnurr, and thus
words undisableable and apposite.

Last night I dreamt that the US - Canada border was one degree further South than it actually is.

It was a dream of Canadian imperialism!

Wayne Gretzky
could have learned to jetski,
or been a brilliant jockey,
if it hadn’t been for hockey.

Am I alone in finding the corporate cliché “low hanging fruit” more than a little obscene? Whenever I run into it I must gird my mind against the image of pendulous bollocks, sweaty from encasement in cheap or expensive suits.

And then there’s the sordid meaning of the phrase - basically, an easy lay, a slut-cost, just begging to be plucked.

I went to a concert on Saturday and I was sat next to a grumpy-looking chap, about my age, with ginger hair and sideburns, who was reading the very hefty “The Origin of the Species” at quiet moments, who stoically refused to applaud - even for an excellent performance of Chopin’s piano concerto #1. He stumbled upon me at the interval as I was gulping down my two glasses of wine, and scowled - the irredeemable cunt!

There is a bloke here in the Alaska lounge at LA airport wandering around snapping flash photographs while I am trying to  blog. I would like to ram his big silly camera up his uncouth nose and take a photo of the inside of his head.

Keep the hygiene and proper use of this restroom. Please do not throw papers or any other elements in these artefacts.

Last night Fernando took me to his favourite Mexican restaurant, where he sang boisterously along with the mariachi while I poured tequila down my throat and smiled idiotically. I asked Fernando what the best kind of pisco was and he said the only criterion for good pisco was its proof, i.e. the proof of the pisco is in the proof. Then we got into Fernando’s truck and drove to a nightspot called Brooklyn’s English Pub, where I drank 46% pisco and munched on popcorn while we waited for the band to come on. The band came on at midnight, by which time the place had filled up quite a bit, and opened bizarrely with Radiohead’s ¨Karma Police¨, before giving it large with the Chilean rock classics, and of course a U2 song, de cuyo nombre no quiero acordarme. We were sitting right in front of the band; the bassist could have pissed in my pisco. But I don’t think he did.