Boys are shallow, poems are deep
Well? some boys are shallow
They eat, sleep, watch TV
And start over again. Sitting at a poetry reading Would be a road trip
Across the dreary Nullarbor in 45 degree heat
Skidding and swerving to avoid
Drunk herds of emus?
I have a friend, in Japan
A self proclaimed Uber Nerd
with a virtual girlfriend big boobs and a soft voice which pipes,
Periodically
Okaerinasai! Kyou wa doudesuka? Tsukaremashitaka? Oshyokuji was
dekitemasuyo. Ohuro ni atsuii oyu ga iremashita. Okaerinasai, anata!
Translation: Welcome home, darling. How was today? Tiring? Your
dinner?s hot. The bath is running with warm water. Welcome home.
Darling!
And she waits at the edge of a computer screen
With silky pantene pro v hair Which fans out in slo-mo
the hint of creamiest bosom encased
in one of a million cute outfits
And limpid dew eyes
He might very well say
Real girls are shallow Virtual girls are deep
Cos they never leave cuts as deep as gorges
In his awkward, grating soul-
But I say to you, Mr Uber Nerd (look up a moment from caressing your
keyboard) And write poetry! Your girlfriend won?t have to be
Constructed,
byte by byte. They will reach out and drag you in They will devour you
(yes, bite by bite!)
Because there ain?t nothing so attractive as a poet
With our little jewels of metaphors And encrusted drops of similes A
whole
stash of rhythm, that good stuff
Give us leaves that disintegrate into autumn
And rain which falls iridescent
Give us vivid red blood
And damp dew green
Expose tantalising bits of your ever so mysterious
Yet vulnerable self
Cos it works. Everytime.
My friend A. has a thing for fingernails
My friend B. has a thing for lips
My friend C. has a thing for eyebrows
My friend D. has a thing for facial hair
(and chest hair, and hair on toes)
Mr friend E. has a thing for Italians
(Quote: OH MY GOD. Their eyelashes. Are long. Their skin. Golden!) My
friend F. has a thing for yabbies (but we?ll leave her alone).
I?ve got a thing for words so?. if a cow is a walking stomach
A poet (surely) is a poem on legs
He?ll be an elastic poem which grows and changes
so I can add my lines Without wrecking the rhythm
Or dismantling stanzas And together we?ll be a harmony Not a discordant
opera In A minor With a trombone solo
In B flat.
we?ll kiss the metaphors so deeply
the similes will get madly? jealous.
Where there is a river
He will be, kneeling down and panning for fish scales
Shedding
Exfoliated
Glinting
Scales
Collect them in his broad palms,
A little mound of jewels he takes to his workshop
He dons a silver suit
And melts the mound into single gem
Polished endlessly
Into an orb
At night he scales the ladder
And pins it in the sky
And shakes off the residue where they land
As stars, dust from his sleeve,
The orb which becomes the moon
Does not forget where it came from
And the river, too, does not forget what was taken from it
And endlessly they stare at each other
As the orb swims through the long night
And yearns for its circular form
To grow a translucent, silver tail.