Michael Batchelor's Blog, page 26

The Skink

When I was a child
A little girl I knew
And didn’t like
Came over to play
One day she came over
With a pet skink
I had nothing against the lizard
But I didn’t like her
So when she went to the toilet
I put the skink on a counter
And squished its head
The girl cried when she saw it
And cried to her mother
Who cried at my mother
Who cried at me
And I didn’t get it at the time
But now I do

So I just want to say
To that little girl
And the skink
I’m sorry

Love Is

Love is
Eating without talking
Sleeping without fucking
Fighting without hating
Giving without wanting

A Reminder

The crash of waves
The crunch of an apple
A woman’s bosom
Warm coffee at sunrise
A toddler’s laughter
The smell of smoke on your clothes
A night filled with promise
Light bouncing off a window
A good sneeze
The fall of fascism
The afternoon rainbow
Kissing your crush
Running with a sparkler
A cool breeze on burnt skin
The smell of a mowed lawn
The colour blue
The number 7
The first day of autumn
Cracking your knuckles
The taste of beer
The rumble of thunder
A symphony orchestra
Seasoned love
Clouds dipped in purple

The beauty of it all
The nonsense of it all
The total of it all
Once and for all

Desk Monkey

here at work
typing away
wasting another
god-given day

drinking coffee
to pass the time
until lunch
eating packaged grime

the afternoon drags
i smell like shit
thanks to two leaky
armpits

five o’clock has come
i’m out the door
another day
being a money whore

The Man On The Hill

The wealthy man
Stands alone
At the top of the hill
But he’s lonely
And the wind is chilly
And he looks down
At the rest of us
Shivering with envy
Because we’re together
Humble
And warmed
By the fire
Of our labour

Fish Out Of Water

I put myself on ice
Waiting for the right moment
The right opportunity
But I’m frozen
Lulled into self-preservation

How do I free myself?
From a cold comfort
Well, if I knew
I wouldn’t be
Writing this

So instead I’ll whine
And type
And turn cowardice
Into art
And pretend that
I’m being productive

Existential Crisis

I lay in bed at night
Tossing and turning
Worrying about death
That long, dreamless sleep
Until a calming thought comes to mind
It’s this:
Death is a party we’re not invited to
And life
Is our little wink
Of infinity

Well-Fed

Thousands of eggs
Hundreds of cows
Tens of pigs
And a dam of milk
All for one young man
And I’m not done yet
It’s too much
I feel sick

Masterpiece

I’ve written a masterpiece
In my head
But when I put it on paper
It turns to shit

My brain
And my fingers
Don’t know how to
Communicate

Or maybe it’s something else
Maybe I’m trying to
Lasso the sun
When its warmth will do

Connection

I was talking to a girl one night
On MSN
Who I really liked
And it was going well
Until her friend jumped in
Who told me she wasn’t interested
And to fuck off
Then they went offline
And I sat quietly
In my dim bedroom
And thought:
What a time to be alive