Poetry by
Gregory McIntyre

your music is fingertips tracing my shoulder, my spine, my hips

so softly, so politely raking nails digging in combing out my knotted skin

here comes the noise the rush of blood the throb of your heart the push and the pull

I’m sorry we were mean. We had to drop everything. Arrested by discovery.

With their curious vacant eyes, With their stifled, sometimes-minds, With their jealous furrowed brows, They are no concern of ours.

They chose to walk, We chose to dance.

The universe is full of empty space Yet you’d prefer, to keep apace With the Jones’ universe, next door, A universe with something more?

I implore you to consider The audacious questions you deliver. Your backyard full of junk? Keep it to yourself, you punk.

She folds her warmth over mine. Brush of hair, her neck inclines. Ankles cross-uncross once more. Tapered wrists twist to the floor. A cold white glow winks in her hands. Elbows flex and fingers dance.

“Yesss,” she says, “Another S!” She’s playing Words With Friends, I guess. Oh, my sense of dignity! I really wish she’d get off me.

“Babe” she says, “What ends with X—” I vaguely hear, “What ends with sex?” Her voice continues distantly, “—and has three letters and an E?” “I don’t know.” Tex-Mex T-rex Flecks specks pecks checks. “How about vex?” She tenses for an second now, Intense activity, head bowed. A brighter shade of night, a sound. She slips and slithers, turns around, Her hips and knees lock down my chest. “Babe?” she says, “You are the best!” She starts to move. “Now your reward “For the fifty points that I just scored.”

We’re nearing the reef. Good grief! We really need a side to pick. Quick. You round up all the girl bots. I have an idea. Let’s give it a whirl. Boys and girls will have a dance off! Then the chance of the boy bots winning Will be the same as the wheel left-spinning. But if the girl bots win the fight We’ll steer this old girl right. A’right?

Such a plan was very bold But, all told, the lonely bots upon the shore, Blowing their ducts with actuators, Would have to wait And wait some more.

Dad, do trees have babies? Oh baby I will tell you how! Right now! With seeds and bees and breezes and lube I think. I’ll check it later on YouTube.

Do they have a wedding ring? They’ve got more rings than you’ve got things.

Do they read their children bedtime stories? Only one and very boring.

What is it about? About as boring as a Vikram Seth. About as long as a director’s cut.

A Vick Ram Seat? An ector-cut? Oh never mind. You know, I find, More and more, when children are A part of yours, you just decide You become the phlegmatic vainglorious centre of the world and it still doesn’t help you use the word serendipity.

Impromptu dance routines are rare, Out there, in the open air, But in this sweltering subway Something makes me wanna DANCE!

Take that woman there, perchance She might become the saucy wench That I so dearly wish her to be, A diva just for me.

That short blond woman, twelve o’clock, Glasses tipped, petite head cocked, Looking at me in the reflection— I like her head’s inflection.

I like the way she’s dropped her case. I like the way she’s kissing my face. I like the place her hands are going. I like the way our eyes meet, knowing.

“Would you like to see where I work?” There’s a bed there, and I need to Plurk, “Oh, you play SecondLife too?” I blab. “I want to make your RL tab!”

Butterflies! I roll my eyes! So ungrounded, they dare advise! Wafty sermons they totally deal. LIKE THEY KNOW HOW I FEEL!?

Like they know the pain I go through, Far away watching her every chew That leaf I glimpse on a neighbouring tree. Only Robert Smith truly understands me.

When you want to swap leaves for a chick it’s called “groaking,” My mates say “bros before hos,” provoking. They know I’m about to give up Make like a fly and butter me up.

Lucas flicked his pocket lint To the breeze, ran to the trees. The lint did drift upon the field Past children—tufts of grass— It wheeled, and eddied higher Until a moment rendered it Unseen!

At last, unseen, the entrance lies Out in the skies, past weather vanes, Past clouds and rains, Past all the pains it once had been.

No more Viking gods to be, No soon dead princes No muddy reeds, drifting in a Ganges funk, No snowflakes caught in alpine seas.

This piece of lint had been all these And weary now of being needed, Freed itself of cosmic fetters, Left us, for a place that’s better Left to your imagining.

At twenty-something (in human years), I Can no longer eat five thousand ants Without a commensurate amount a time, Jogging in anteater sweat pants.

“Oh don’t worry,” they say, “You’ll find you are Hugely passionate for it one day! It releases endorphins that are at least on par With a honeypot soufflé.“

“It recharges your battery, removes all your fears, Makes the girl anteaters’ hearts pang! Adds years to your life,“ Yeah. Human years. So I have to multiply that by twenty-six and divide by eighty. Dang.

“The plates need scrubbing,” said my mother. “You can’t see the germs so you have to keep rubbing.” I ironed my clothes every night. She told me to do it or get out of her sight. I vacuumed my room every single day, Sometimes twice if she had her way. My teeth are a testament to her good sense; They impress my neighbour, chatting over the fence. I spent most of my life a ne’er-do-well, Trying not to step on mother’s eggshells.

Yet I was inside a box in my head— A perfect sanitary cube— It took me an age to grow tall and see That I didn’t have to clean things that were clean, or make poems rhyme if I didn’t bloody well feel like it.

Remember meeting? I can’t recall how it felt The seasons of us

My Roman Catholic hamster is never very far but It’s never very clear, Why she scampers when I near.

I hold out her food. I call her sweet name. “Whiskers, look! I got you nice, The Body and the Blood of Christ!“

Yesterday I figured out why she fusses. The food for her I’d refrigerated She prefers pretransubstantiated.

Daggers make me giggle, And staves make me colour. Polearms are a tickle, And axes, if they’re duller.

Swords are not as sharp, As my rogueish wit. Even if I harp, On about dice a bit.

Arrows make me smirk, As long as I evade, Your precious 1d8 + 1 dirk? Holds nothing to my Vorpal Blade.

Under bridge and overpass, Icy playgrounds after dark, Rusty shacks in forgotten lands, Cars in ditches by desert sands, Surf blasted coves near holiday homes, Glimpsed from bright roads when alone, The branches of figs, muscle bound and wet, Wrestling and struggling dark silhouettes.

Jitters and spins about, The search light sets a frenetic pace. Yxou sweeps his hair from his face.

Seven hundred cigarettes, He brushes his hand through a shock of red Brandished menacingly on his head.

Red strands clump down on ceramic. The tinny buzz is drowned by the sound: Men’s boots, dogs barking all around.

Pause to check the job is done In flashes of light from under the door. WOAH WOAH. Ferocious sounds outside The room with the fluoro hair strewn floor.

Last night I chanced Upon the dance Of my tiny shining soul. She stood in front of the mirror While she thought nobody saw.

I didn’t watch her determined jaw, I certainly didn’t see Her bottom shake, her elbows jut, Nor the nervous steps of her feet.

I entered the room, diverting my gaze, To collect my phone. Sometimes a father’s pride is not sought But it’s always there, you know.

The snow curls to the ground and holds your gaze, Your eyes, alive and white, Reflected in the window, by the fire, On these wint’ry nights.

I’ll never ask you to explain, I hope I never find, Please never tell me, never lessen with words, Your quiet heart and mind.

The cake went sour Since I looked at your feet; The Pysanky rolled there. I didn’t lift my gaze to meet Yours.

You’d see my eyes were not dry.

I vowed I wouldn’t look again Until I’d packed away the things I feel. So that you would like me again; So again you would want me, to be Yours.

It’s been a week.

Waiting for my eyes to dry, I left them on the fence. My rejection of this curdling cream, Marking out the days since Yours.

I’m tired of staring at pickets. It’s time I asked you to be mine.