THE LIDL TRILOGY

part 1. OOPS

i piddled on lidl.

they left me idle,
tied to a bin handle.
the wind blew,
my bladder grew
desperate for a widdle.
so i went.

i left a puddle.

part 2. Love

jane went to his till.

i bet he has a big tiddle.
she whispered to marie,
on the day,
that she almost found,

love in lidl.

part 3. ME

i dont want to come
to the toilet
with you, camille.

she said on the day
i piddled...
not on lidl,
not on yer waddle,
tee hee
eek.

i piddled on me.

part 4 LIDL LIQUOR

dan says,
rum from lidl
tastes like tropical death.

jane says,
there was wine on sale
(at lidl),
with genu-wine spanish gold netting
wrapped round the bottle.
says she tried unwinding it,
to make jewelry
for her mom.

the hair (from bunnygirl)

Once upon a time, hair floated free.
single strands curled around the collective consciousness
until
one man tamed the tangles
and held them captive in his tower.

he sung to the hair
about lying under the Rhodesian stars.
he growled at the pub boys
who broke its hairy heart.

He charmed it.
he made us feel small
sequestered in his room of curls,
to catch the sun,
the smoke,
the flies.

One morning as he raked yesterday’s locks.
his brush got tangled in its greasy glory,
he was in over his head.
in danger.
the hair wanted to rule his life.
To creep across his pillow to freedom.
he had hairBALLs striving to be free.
clinging to the carpet lifeboat,
to jumpers,
to cat chins,
hoping for a free ride
to the woods.
where hair might finally take root
to grow a firry tree.

farewell dostoyevsky

farewell dostoyevsky, my purple tarzan.
no more shall i be your jane.
no more dipping across the horizon
on russia's strongest vines.

hush to our literary povocations:
be-leafed fertile prose.
swollen purple prose.
let a lull descend over the canopy.
let the monkeys catch their breath
and begin their recitations once again.

yo momma

yo momma's so ugly, the trash puts rubber gloves on to take HER out.

yo momma's so fat, she need a sewing machine to attach the dress to her shadow.

yo momma's so deaf, she thinks the Leith karaoke is a bug in her hearing aid.

yo momma stink so bad, last week the dinner ran away from her fork.

a dirty bank statement

hairpins on my bank statement. as well as a smudge of olive oil. and EXTRA STRENGTH ibuprofen tablets.

no, hsbc don't know. they, being a serious banking operation, would disappove of such frivolous handling of debt evidence. they generate nice crisp statements, and stuff them lovingly in an envelope brImming with bank propaganda. and they pay, to send it to me.
they are never late mailing my debt evidence, like i am with my christmas cards.
even if they were real busy, busier than me,
the envelope would still be waiting on my doormat.

i worry only momentarily about their sad monthly portraits of my negative personal per capita gross percentage. i worry more about a moth in my lamp, dying a hot death.
i worry more about pollution sticking to my face. or being stalked, followed home and bludgeoned.
or the CAT wanting to run her claws through my tights.

i've never written a personal letter to hsbc, don't remember the name of the nice asian lady that helped me fix up transfers to america.
i have become in the eyes of the big men that run this place. alan greenspan or something.
alan greenspan might be real smart, but he still looks like mr.burns on the simpsons.
would he be nice to the cat?
would he stroke my pussy?
oh alan. don't run your claws through my tights. i can't afford a new pair.

picturing alan greenspan working at my local (the one and only) hsbc is like alain ducasse handing out frites and big macs at mcdonalds.
hsbc is the money mcdonalds.

there must be far classier establishments elsewhere. like in the middle east. i bet in dubai they get really nice bank statements. because they must not have big credit card bills like us, the poor fat white people. those sheiks in their robes, the bank gets REAL happy when it sees them on their way. not sure why they'd go the bank
--oh yeah, to put money in.
forgot you could do that too.

they surely give piles of money to the bank. a bank with a marble foyer, a great high ceiling and fountains in the centre of the room. butlers, fresh donuts and coffee. they want to make their customers feel real loved... unlike at hsbc where we sit for hours while they twitter and gossip around the corner from the waiting area. just out of sight, but we can hear them as we sit. watching a third-rate news channel and picking boredly through a newspaper two days old. there is never anything left but the sports section. boring stories about british sailors.

by the time we are called for our audience with The One Who May Grant A Larger Overdraft, our shoulders are slumped and our fingers are sticky with newsprint. we leave filthy smudges on their pen. we have to borrow an hsbc pen to sign the overdraft agreement (in triplicate).
we always misplace our pens before this crucial signing moment, as with all crucial moments. leaving our important company no other choice but to think us unprepared.
where DO the pens in handbags go when we need them?

i bet the arab bank statements come in glossy black envelopes as hot black honey flows monthly from the arab pockets into that bank. i bet the there are little grey gas pumps printed on the statements, a subtle accent to all the zeroes before the decimal point. and no red minus sign before it.
i know the red minus sign. its on the cakes the old ladies fight for late night shopping at sainsbury's. thomas says thats all they can afford. i just think they like cake. and bargains.

after a certain age, we all become more like alan. alan-wannabes.
our earning power is over. we are financially reclining and physically declining. biding our time until our clogs pop off and our piddly financial leftovers are scooped up by our surviving relatives. to put towards their red minus sign. hoping one day it will fade to pink. or even fall off. like a scab.

this is your life in a nutshell

memories of the villagers
eyeing you up suspiciously as you bounded along, laughing to yourself, totally oblivious to cockerspaniels, rotten robbins, lush lawns and the witch on the corner.

wandering the village streets, a child constantly caught up in fantastical imaginings.
you'd have to find a way to escape.

fantastical creatures had their eye on you.
fantastical creatures were always watching. from afar
looking for bored crazy special little girls brave enough
to want fiendishly interesting lives. settling for inside lives.

the secret life of girls.
often undermined, later underestimated.
they see power in letting others think you cant.
but you know.

you know you will never be a garbage man. or a secretary.
or work in that red brick building in the centre of town across from the cinema.
next to the bank and the bowling alley.

served you well living a wholesome existence.
took aunt out for lunch after died.
shared teenage makeouts.
rolled around on the sticky floor.
never quite knew if mom saw what you kids we were doing.

a luminous career in suburbia. it was good.
you were too good to get caught.

you tell your family. they never understand.
the life they preened for. prepared to drive a few hours to see.
sent some letters to far flung stations--a few letters.
as the years wore on, the letters dried up. now only for special occassions.

after 17 addresses,
they realise you won't become a neighbour.
won't buy a duplex. or sit and visit.
their polite but loving christmas cards tell you to come home.
family ties are important.
how can you only see them every year and a half?

soon they may forget. give up. on you having a stable marriage and producing cousins. and grandkids. and neices and nephews.

you little sparkler...
you have lost.
you will always be a foreigner. outsider. always will be.

can you hear me smiling in the dark?

i came home, and i lay in bed. in the dark room. with the streetlamps poking through the curtains and the sound of someone singing their way home occasionally pulling me back to reality. i smiled into my pillow in appreciation of the man stumbling and singing his way down Clerk Street. he was trying to tell us all that he had really enjoyed his night. it must be a really good nite to sing your way home.

was he looking forward to going home, and like me, lying in bed and thinking? endorphined stupor makes vivid imaginings.
the perfect time to lie in bed and listen to music.
or snack.
or think.
or do all three.
but mind you don't get jam on the pillows.

there is never enough thinking time. you inevitably pass out long before the thinking is all thought through. ideas swim past and bloom into fantastic dreams.

and knowing ALL this (and i really mean ALL because at times like that, everything you know is important, every mite of wisdom you've ever acquired helps you put the big puzzle of thought together)
... i smiled.

couldn't help smiling. it felt good to smile. i smiled into my pillow, then i turned my head and smiled up at the cieling. i even tipped my chin and smiled at the stereo in thanks for the great music it had on offer tonite (Ill Communication). i wiggled my toes beneath the covers and i smiled some more.

pOOF! there was a thought.

i said to myself, Self, i can hear a difference when i smile. if i was not the one pulling the muscle puppet strings behind this smile, i would still know that it is there. the way a bat uses sound reverberations to discern the shape of a space, i could tell by the way sounds were deflecting to my ear, that my cheeks were in a different place. higher and more taught. my dimple was engaged. things that only happen during moments of joy.

aha.

i must now test to see if one can hear smiles of others--this would be a good test. would the smile's extra distance from our ears be too much to hear the delicate differece? would each stranger's smile sound diFFERENT! (what a concept!) can we be hear any other facial gestures? or are humans not tuned to recognize any more than the two critical--smile vs. frown.

next week i will try to come home and listen to myself scowl and will let you know what happens.