The first time I wept publically was
In the dark in a Melbourne picture palace
To the bits in Breakfast at Tiffany’s
Where Miss Golightly chucks the
‘no name’ slob cat out the cab.
She, cruel enough, or fortunate enough
To heighten this dramatic impact by making
Sure it’s raining too.
Sometime ago my Melbourne hosts
Telephoned me at work
To see if I was dead,
Which is frowned upon by my employer’s.
Not the me being possibly dead,
But the phonecall.
“I’m just fine, Russ” I rushed..
“Well, there’s the divorce and I have
Acute Situational Disorder, but I’m disagreeably not dead.
Why do you ask?”
“Strewth! The painting we bought off you…
The self-portrait oil painting with mixed media
Stuck on beer label and fag-packet?
It’s about 9pm here and it just fell, no, jumped off the wall…”
“?” I questioned…
“? !” he exclaimed.
“Over here in Oz, mate, it’s a portent, an omen…
A sign of death!”
“Well, over here it must just mean life
Is going on just as shittily as ever, maybe with garnish.”
And, he relieved, me feeling a little cheated,
We chatted for a few more moments until my boss’
Telekinesis made me place the ‘phone back in it’s cradle.
Now, vaccuming carpets,
I life the lid to place some beach shoes in a foot stool
And CRACK!
Stars burst, teeth mousetrap together and
I yell out and turn to see who has crept into the flat
And brained me over the skull with a lead pipe
In an attempt at a poor burglary,
And find a heavy wooden metaphorical picture
Of that same divorce, the ex and I burning in the pink flames
Of a rather less metaphorical hell,
Has jumped from the wall and walloped me, like a cartoon rolling pin.
Unlike their shilly-shallying Antipodean cousins,
English portents and omens carry some weight.
I don’t know much about luck,
Who fortune decides to favour,
But after this I wobbled up to the Co-op with
Small stars shooting from my fontanelle,
To buy some breakfast smoked back bacon,
And near Hallowe’en, an impulse buy
My hand reaches out and grabs a pumpkin as
The elastic waistband of my snaps,
Is as loose as a noose without a corpse.
Juggling a 4 kg squash proves uneasy.
Obviously it’s a day of domestic disasters,
(I am now looking for a small but vital part of the Hoover in a dustbin)
Small ones though,
Nothing like the diastrophism
Of great passions turned fleet and sour.
And for the moments she has won,
It is difficult not to cast your mind back to your ex
When there is an egg on your head to rival a cuckoo,
And you are trying to tear open aspirin with your teeth
And wonder
If there is another chap out there
Looking at what portent walks by his side,
With the wrong person’s heart embroidered
On the romance of his arm.
Dan Belton 18/10/12
Written on a quick whim after a small run of domestic bad luck.
October 16, 2019
danbelton
danbelton 