Poetry by
Gregory McIntyre

I didn’t mean to flaunt it On our jaunt. It’s just that Sometimes jacket packets Bought in stores contain some more Than just the jacket.

See, jackets go over pants And if nice designers chance To put jacket tails on some pants In their packet with the jacket Then an unsuspecting beau, As pure as the driven snow, Could unwittingly unpack it— Now a folder with a jacket— And to his outfit, add it.

WHAM.

Now he’s in a jam because he Used his underpants slot for leg hair And with his pants no longer there, Just some jacket tails aren’t enough To cover all his stuff.

And cold air can be rough.

Down the sweaty hotel walls—your face— Beads of perspiration trace. I can see in the mirror—your eyes— My heaving thighs. I moan—disguise.

You fuck me like you’re bored—a chore. Do you even want me anymore? We are both politely faking—vacant. Too lazy to leave. You’re done—reprieve.

The instant I looked at you, the rush! My next crush, you telegraphed Your laugh right past my guard. I didn’t stand a chance - was lanced, Upon my train seat by romance.

You saw my trance in fluorescent light A thousand mem’ries yet to prove Flickered through my inner sight. My fingers on my keyboard halted, Mind assaulted by your smile.

Yeah… it’s been a while, Since I saw a hurt like mine Broken by a facial line.

Your stoicism on the floor Rolled around like an empty can Nobody was going to claim. Who could blame? What was made In that moment at 40 Ks Was something better, something more, Something we’d both been waiting for.

Nothing people fill up trains. When it rains they all complain. Too cold? Turn up the heat! Too hot? Fan yourself in your sweaty seat. Chew your gum and play with gadgets, You overprivileged wastes of space, You abysmally stupid middle men, You perfect examples of the human race.

I, the worst offender, That’s the certain rub of it. That’s the biting truth I can’t ignore it anymore, It’s taken me by force. My heart cannot divorce nor tolerate This much remorse; there’s no recourse.

I’m a total slacker, pork roll packer, Trotters stained by the filthy trough, Of economic slavery. Lord, save me A grande serve of bacon rolls. My piggy paunch dressed to the nines, Drop me off at ancient atolls strung with lights. It is, you know, My God forsaken Australian right.

I drove today amongst the tank-family cars, vacuous, grinding their metal on metal dreams of a defensible position.

I knew a man spent too many nights Quiet quiet, wishing for a lover He didn’t know quite what that meant, Staring at his own lament. He’s a picture of roaring fire. He’s a picture of cold desire.

I knew a man wasted too many days Staring at skies and picking at petals. Poor man didn’t know what it meant, Staring at cement. He’s a picture of flower beds. He’s a picture of empty heads.

I knew a man spent too many hours Curled up pale, ringed and bent. He was sick, his friends could see. Nobody else can set you free. He’s a picture of roaring tides. He’s a picture of empty insides.

I knew a man who went separate ways. Looking for the corner prize. Didn’t realise when he parted, He’d left it where he started. He’s a picture of lonesome nights. He’s a picture of cold daylight.

I knew a man just a moment ago, Arms full of old things he hugs to his breast; Rusty old dusty old worthless things— Photographs and wedding rings. He’s a picture of a weak heartbeat. He’s an old picture, framed and complete.

My undies and socks are in compartmentalised stores, Situated in drawers, from ceiling to floor. Under the stairs there’re seventeen more. My craft cupboard spans an entire wall. Each bobbin, each pin, a space for them all.

If you care to apply some scrutiny To my collection of records in the attic you’ll see I sorted them chromatically. My winter clothes are in vacuum packs, My ties and my shoes? Their own special racks!

I’ve a special drawer for my cutlery; It has separate compartments numbering three. A tool box, a hat stand, a cupboard, pantry, A seat box, a toy box, one for costuming, My passion for storage is all consuming!

It took an age to sculpt these shoes. We’re felicitous. It’s remiss of us, Not to care for your feet like shoe makers should. We’re solicitous of your business.

Can we massage your toes with kittens and roses And mittens and loofahs and flattering lotions? Can we rub our noses on your toes and say prayers Blow warm airs on your heel everywheres?

Can we take off your pants and dance…? There’s ever a chance, you just might find us That much more, than you saw us, before. Let me spell it out for you: You could score.

Why do people suck so much?     Like parents who let their children run rings     Around them and touch exhibited things? Why do people suck so much?     Like people who try to rhyme the word eye     With the clearly non-rhyming “symme-try”? Why do people suck so much?     Like pop art decoupage kitschy freaks     Who paint sun faces and do shabby chic? Why do people suck so much?     Like hipsters.

LinkedIn is for chumps, I found a way To make an impression that can’t be beat. I guarantee you, on the day, You’ll land that job, now take a seat.

Listen to my simple plan. You’re lucky to hear it for free. I should be charging at least five bucks. Okay maybe two bucks fifty.

Get mod podge and draw a prawn, Or a claw shrimp at least, Upon your curriculum vitae. Or maybe some other majestic beast.

Now a common problem at this point: It’s hard to see the white on white. Ah but wet on dry stands out, If you tilt it under a light!

Quickly take a handful of glitter, And apply it liberally. Tap the excess into a bin. Behold! What do you see?

Not one cold hearted sariman With a face like hardened plaster Could not respect a glitterprawn. You are the glitterprawn master.

I wish to punch that bitch—that witch— Who cursed me with a cheese tumour Around about the area which, I itch. ’Twas once my noble balding pate. Don’t look at me, I’m shy now. Try Now, look away. I hide my Yellow skin and greasy eyes. I smell delicious. I want to die.

Genius bar evictee, That’s me. They did not agree With pedagogical duty: The use of iMovie To explain to thee Making a baby. See, I placed spy cameras ’round Without sound Recorded, played, rewound Yet found The idea wasn’t clear So here, And there I put a sound. To expound, I did it, I admit it, I clicked edit And you bet it Sounded good Last night… But now An imagined voice sounds clear and right. “Royce,” it says, in mother’s voice, “Maybe boing was not the best choice.”

Dear last night me, Gadzooks! I see, You’re not asleep, it’s half past three. Today I’m not asleep, nor waking I’m shaking, now. I’m shaking.

I tasked Foxie to write a poem. He wrote about last night. He wrote about what he did do, And you should do it too… So today I’m not a zombie And can write my report promptly.

Have a bath and have a drink, Stretch your legs or clean the sink, Air the room or use a fan, Be as warm, or cool as you can, Precisely two hours after a feed. Write a list of things you need. No TV, no computer screens, And not too many refried beans. That is what the textbooks say. So bloody easy in the light of day.

Foxie’s advice is in addition And next to that lump, that standard edition Of well researched common sense, Foxie’s tip is… complete nonsense.

Hold the hand of one Stev, two, Three Stevs, four, a million more. Splitting and dividing, growing, Dizzying and flowing. A red convertible lurches forward, Dodging dusty sunlight swords, Faster faster, to a wall, It doesn’t fall, goes up is all. The road folds over near the top, Encloses the whole world in a box. On the outside, painted stars, Zooming out now, from afar, A small boy packs it in his closet, Is that what Stev was like? Was it? Now it is an old man smiling, Sitting in a room and filing, Photos in a box of stars, Fingering one, of a car, He had as a younger man, Engine grease and jerrycans.

Now take this postcard, Last night me, Plant it in your room and see, It grow into a hundred beds On which to lay your hundred heads. Just do what Foxie says.

“Left bottom cheek, you know, you reek, have you even bathed this week?” “Rawr, me Sasquatch, eat little men! In my belly AT LEAST TEN!” “Oh cheeky left buttock, you’ve quite the funk, did you realise you’re covered in spunk?” “Rawr, me Sasquatch, sit on dicks, crush them up to LITTLE BITS!” “Other half, did you have a fall? Dicks aren’t full of spunk, that’s balls.” “Rawr, me Sasquatch, me not wrong. Coca-Cola make BIG AND STRONG!” “Loony bun, between you and me, this place is a hole, I think we should leave.”

My lipsss I am a-lickin’ when the childrens come a-pickin’ Round my home they are a-dancin’, a-ssshoutin’ and a-prancin’. I likes the taste of little boysss, dislocate my jaws and poisssse, To ssslither out and pluck one where he Circles ’round my mulberry bush, Clumsy, slow, and none too wary.

What did we do, when I showed you You don’t love me, and nor I you? You smile and cook and ask after my day But seldom pause for what I say.

And I return, in kind to you. I give my life, to stay in view. I smile and clean and wash and shop But when you speak my efforts stop.

What did we do, when I showed you You don’t love me, and nor I you? You went upstairs and cleaned the rooms And in silence, I cleaned too.

What else to say and what to do? You don’t love me, and nor I you.

Fluorescent lights show us now, sitting in our railway seat. I wear the office trials of the day.

I get up to let you off, standing on my weary feet. You thank me and I pale from the way.

Like you know me perfectly, laughing at my spotlight burn. You alight the train through parting doors.

Wrap me in that certain smile! Wash away the day’s concern! It’s all you had to do, and I was yours.

For a moment I was held, cradled in strange charity, I felt the peace and confidence so dear.

Fluorescent lights show me now, sitting in my railway seat. An overgrown child, a thin veneer.

I sit and wait for time to draw     Me to the time my vow must break. Till I am not expected anymore     To laugh, nor love, nor wake.

I made a mistake.

In this life I find No one equal to my kind, No one who lives by my ideals, No one to whom I can reveal That I have made a bad mistake.

I could leave this world, if only. I am tired, numb and lonely.

Mascara caked on thick As lipstick. You can’t blink. Eye liner draws your eyes closed.

Rouge on foundation on exfoliated skin— A painting. Can’t see in. You’d look better in a smile.