Monthly Archives: December 2011

published in the cannon’s mouth

Two of my poems, Misted Sound and Fob Watch have been published in the December issue of The Cannon’s Mouth. If you’ve not read them before, please check out the poems below, previously published on this site.

http://giorgethomas.com/2011/10/13/laugharne-the-home-of-dylan-thomas/

http://giorgethomas.com/2011/10/10/fob-watch/

 

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i made a boo

I made a boo.

Start again

stick together with glue.

But before you walk

don’t forget

what’s stuck under your shoe:

Fragments of love

that were broken

by you.

You made the boo.

I made a boo:

walking around

I ran into you

And saw you there

holding another

girl through.

Waiting around

to see if this girl

will do.

Hoping that

you’ll come back

to me soon.

I made a boo,

and that boo was you.

Copyright Giorge Thomas

** published by Nineteen-O-Splash and Fresh Magazines

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i am a goat

I’ve worked it out. I am a goat. Yes, it’s my star sign and some might think that foolish for me to believe in, but I am. Goats are tenacious little fuckers. They spend all their lives climbing fucking mountains, never on flat ground. They don’t complain. It’s their life and they just get on with it. My life is fucking Everest. So yes, I am a goat.

Once, when I was a kid, Aunty Anne took me to the Adelaide Zoo. This was back in the days when elephants and giraffes walked around a concrete enclosure, the elephants only joy was to be sprayed down with water every now and again, the giraffes to eat hay out of mangers set high in the air. For some reason, there were goats at the zoo. When I think about it, the enclosure was probably a petting zoo for us kiddy-winks. We were all given paper bags filled with grey pellets to feed to the goats, but when one wasn’t fed fast enough he began eating away at Aunty Anne’s dress. Though she would have called it a frock and it would have been purchased, I’m almost certain, at Joyrene’s ‘Lovely for Ladies’. Goats will eat anything. So will I, actually. Therefore I am a goat.

Goats do not spend half their life traipsing around the difficult and treacherous terrain of a mountain to then go, ‘ah, fuck this, I didn’t sign up for this shit. I’m just gonna hurl myself off that cliff there.’ No. they’re goats and they just keep slogging away because that’s there lot in life and there’s nothing they can do about it. They were born on that mountain and they’ll live on that mountain, thank you very much.

Yes, I’m a goat. But it’s pretty hard to climb the fucking mountain when someone’s just cut your legs off.

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journal

One day I would like not to live in pain, but just have an average kind of day where I’m not hurt by the disease within me, or should I say diseases. There’s so many now, I’ve lost count.

Diseases in my body, diseases in my mind. I know that they’re not linked, yet I feel it unfair, sometimes, to not have the opportunity to have just one thing wrong with me.

I would like to wake up and not have to medicate myself just to be able to smile, answer the phone, or function as a normal human being.

I would like to feel part of this world, instead of fighting every day.

I would like to see the good in everything, instead of the bad.

I would like to not have to push through. Sometimes I wish I could just be without the struggle.

People look to Christmas with hope, with love, with excitement. I look to it as just another thing I need to get through.

This is how I’m feeling today. I’m sure tomorrow I’ll feel different. Or maybe the same. Regardless, though, I’ll trudge through.

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Kidwelly

Kidwelly Castle

 

 

Grass carpeted the grounds at Kidwelly.

It was so green and so fine

 

That by appearance it seemed to be fine velvet.

A green tattoo that did not allow me to see

 

Back hundreds and hundreds of years

To barn animals, foot-soldiers, peasants,

 

Straw-covered, manure-covered and filth-

Covered ground.

 

Standing there among the green I felt peace and tranquillity,

At odds with the hustle and bustle from the past.

 

If I were Queen I’d prefer the green of the lawn,

And I’d rope it off with little signs: “Keep Off The Grass”.

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christmas brilliance

I kind of feel sorry for those poor bastards that work in department stores and supermarkets. It’s bad enough that for the past two months I’ve been irritated when hearing Christmas carols playing whenever I’ve walked into one. Imagine how they’re feeling, though! They’ve been having to listen to them for, like, two months now. Horrible annoying carols by Mariah Carey or Christina Aguilera. Surely, they’d be going mad.

It’s the 5th of December, right? Kids still in school, maddness not quite started. Apparently so. Popped into a shopping centre today to buy a book for one of our friends kids overseas. I don’t normally attempt any Christmas shopping until, like, the week before Christmas, to which I’ll then be completely stressed at having to do everything all at once and curse Christmas in its entirety. Yet today, 5th of December, I remind you, the shops were mad! People every where. Kids everywhere. Fights going on in the carpark at that one loan space left available. Department stores looking like Santa had come personally to throw up all over the place, everything was so sparkly. It’s so ridiculous that you can walk through those stores and come out the other side covered in glitter even though you hadn’t been anywhere near any of the decorations. There were already kids crying in the toy department (which they insist on putting right near the entrance where you walk in so even those of us without kids are subjected to the complete horror that is the toy department. Kids throwing massive tantrums, ‘what do you mean Santa can’t afford it? He’s santa!’ Mother’s complaining about the cost of everything though insisting on buying their children not one but several expensive items. People muttering to their friends about the ridiculous cris cringle idea and ‘what the fuck am I going to get them?’ questions that always arise.

I love how in big families the decision is often made to do a cris cringle or secret santa to take the pressure off everyone. Yet inevitably you’re given the name of a cousin or aunt you don’t really know very well, certainly have no idea what to buy for them and have a limit of $20 which in this day an age you get absolutely nothing for. So everyone ends up with something they don’t really want – another useless trinket, what’s more, the whole secret santa thing is often voided by families deciding that in their immediate family they’ll still do presents so you often end up with double the stress.

My parents are quite Italian in their gift-giving. We get money. Yes, yes, it is nice to receive a present, to open a present, but fuck me, sometimes I understand why they do it. In actual fact, this year, when Dad hands over the crip $50 bill like some forlorn bank teller, I have a right mind to hand it back to him as his present. Or better yet, let’s just keep our money in our wallets and save all of us the hassle.

I can’t believe I’m already getting anxious about this. Trouble is, I cannot avoid shops for the next twenty days. You know, I’ve got to eat. I can’t go around with my eyes closed to avoid looking at all the blinding tinsel. I can’t walk around with my ears blocked to avoid Mariah Carey’s cat-like trilling as she makes her way down the octives in some obscure take of a Christmas carol trying to prove to us all what a gifted singer she is. Yes, we know. Now shut up, you no longer have to convince us.

In actual fact I’d be quite pleased to give up on the whole idea of Christmas all together. Well, all the crap parts of Christmas. Like me having to buy gifts for eveyone else. Perhaps they can all tell me what they want, buy it themselves, and just present me with a receipt on Christmas day, to which I’ll reimburse them for.

I think I’ve done it, really. I’ve just come up with a whole new way of celebrating Christmas. Receipt day. Christmas is the one day a year when you can go out and buy that ridiculous thing you’ve always wanted but could never justify having and just get someone else to pay for it. Instead of turning up to Christmas lunch with a bottle of wine or a Christmas cake, everyone will just turn up with wallets full of cash.

I’m quite brilliant indeed.

 

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