I’ve just got back from an overseas trip with just the Wif and no spawn that lasted an entire week.
We went to tropical paradise to watch and participate in the nuptials of a very dear friend, have some long awaited time to ourselves and generally run amok.
While over there I drank every single day and dedicated myself to at bare minimum one cigar each day. Two of which were consumed in a hammock.
It was an uproariously grand adventure and as is generally the case with me, I have arrived back on home soil with a plethora of new stories to share with you all.
And as is also generally the case with me, I’m not going to tell you a single one of them right now because I’m back logged with crap that I haven’t yet told you from the weeks leading up to our holiday.
A few weeks before we departed I performed my very first poetry reading at an open mic night called ‘Silver Words’ hosted each month here in Hobart Tasmania.
You can check their blog out here:
And also you’ll find them up on that bookface place that I often stumble around on when I feel like spitting chunks of words and pictures at people if you search ‘Silver Words.’
It’s an amazingly welcoming atmosphere, the performers are all pretty damn good quality for a pack of mostly amateurs (like myself) and I hear great things about the monthly feature performers who usually come on after intermission. Which is when I’m halfway through a plate of tacos as Pancho Villa because it’s the only date night the Wif and I get and we don’t really want to push the friendship with the sister in law by making her wait till 10 before we get home to tag her out of babysitting.
My performance went pretty good I think but I’ll admit that I felt pretty intimidated by the other performers.
My poetry is pretty much all free verse. And bite size. Yes a few of them are Steve Tyler sized bites but bites none the less.
So when other people get up there and reel off entire pages of lyrical poems I felt a little silly clutching a book which had the equivalent of a few post-it-notes full of words scratched onto them.
So I did what I usually do in those kind of situations. And I filled allllll the open space in my performance with unnecessary and convoluted explanations of stuff hoping to dazzle people with my meteorite storm of sparkly bullshit.
What can I say, I’m a salesperson at heart. Bullshit is my medium.
But as usual with my word-garbage, there is a point that I’m getting to.
See, I’d already watched a few people perform the month prior, and the whole month before I was up I was stressing that I didn’t have enough content, so all the bullshit I spewed was actually premediated. You could say I took a few verbal laxatives to prepare for the night. Also a few beers.
All the pieces that I read were from the series ‘Fuck Poetry’ that I wrote and posted onto Instagram. You can go there through the link on my page and find all 20 something of the little fuckers plus all the other short poems that succeeded them.
The series was a study in insulting and making fun of poems, poets and poetry. And all I managed to do was get myself lost in writing poetry and opening doors to places that I never really wanted to go, revealing things about myself to others that I never wanted to share, and generally accepting my fate as a poet.
Anyhoo. After I explained the whole series to everyone in that exact manner and got over the fact that people were staring at me blankly like I’d just puked on something they loved then ate the puke up again, I pushed on and explained my views on poetry thusly.
‘There is no need to have a deep raw emotion present in poems all the time. You don’t always have to write about love, or loss, or sadness, or elation. You can write about anything you want, anything you see and write it in anyway that you chose. Poems can be about the mundane; about the normal everyday things that you do.
For example, the wife and I have recently had a daughter, and having a new baby in the house makes doing certain things that we used to take for granted rather… difficult. And here’s a poem about that now.’
My hand caresses her side.
My lips, my tongue, massage her neck.
I cup her feminine form.
A gentle squeeze.
Sensual leading to firm.
Tumescently rigid, I press again
And a cry.
And a cry.
I roll over.
Sheets fly back
A remark dances on a smirk
As opportunity escapes me.
‘I guess it’s my turn.’
I sigh. ‘At least someone gets to have a turn.’
And that’s the story of how I spoke in public about pressing my erection against my wife and nobody even battered and eyelid.