Month: May 2025

My Latest Fetish

/ johnlmalone / 51 Comments

My Latest Fetish

Every time I see a Honda Accord in the wild — in a parking lot, in a queue at Maccas collecting a Happy Meal, I grow excited.

Honda Accords have become my latest fetish.

I drove two last years, both loans, when my Cruze was being ‘fixed’,

one had torn seats, the other a wonky side mirror but they drove like they really meant it, no shuddering , no farting smoke when you gun the engine. They were a car you could lean on.

I only wish they’d appeared in classier movies. ‘Sneaky Pete’. ‘Late Bloomer’ and ‘Death of a Telemarketer’ were all duds, though ‘Veuve et Nymphomane’ at least promises the frisson of the ‘forbidden’

Still, Holden Cruzes have left no cinematic track records either.

Only when you see a car in the movies is it desirable.

In a Lift with Mad People

/ johnlmalone / 43 Comments

In a Lift with Mad People

It was like being in a lift

with mad people

with megaphones for mouths

shouting down the phone

in our cramped little room






& the attendants knocking





telling us to keep the noise





down





but we all had our axes





to grind





while Bazza in the next room





down the line





three miles away





was tearing beds to pieces










and being pinned down





by three security staff





and calling out, Help! Help! Help!










and o the hullabaloo





and you, you and you





barking like bailiffs





& the door would not open
















			

	


			
				


	

							
The Light
						

			 / johnlmalone						 / 29 Comments
								

			


		

		








The Light





Is he still there? I wonder. Like last week





and the week before —





lounging in a corridor of the nursing home





head under a blanket?





Hey Tony. Wassup man?





The head pops up like a turtle’s from its shell.





It’s dark in here, John.





Then get your head out of the darkness, I say, sounding slightly biblical.





Move towards the light.  











			

	


			
				


	

							
Panda Says
						

			 / johnlmalone						 / 43 Comments
								

			


		

		






The Panda Says





You huddle under the blankets





huddle against the cold





huddle against the years





‘cause you’re getting old










Huddle against the ev’ning news





‘cause it’s all so bleak





Huddle against the torrent of words





you just know she’s going to speak










Yes, huddle against the future





huddle against the past





but huddle in the mimicry





that nothing’s going to last










So, melodize each moment





it’s the boat we’re in





and paddle with all your might





‘cause it ain’t going to happen again.










says the Panda.











			

	


			
				


			
				


	

							
Blank Wall
						

			 / johnlmalone						 / 21 Comments
								

			


		

		






Blank Wall.





I storm down the passageway





to the exit door





the receptionist says, Hey!





you didn’t sign out.





I say, how can I sign out





when I didn’t sign in?





There were no clean pens.





She looks at me like a blank wall.





I  barge out the door.





I’m not going back there, I blurt out.





Not to Room 64 !





And I’m outside still cursing.





and bump into a scruffy ibis





scowling like a street person.
















			

	


			
				


	

							
Did I Do Right?
						

			 / johnlmalone						 / 36 Comments
								

			


		

		








Did I Do Right?





Walking down a side street on yr way to the gym





you’re bombarded





by someone bawling in their backyard;





the corrugated iron fence too high





to peer over –





you have to imagine:





not a child, a woman, an older woman





furiously crying





out among the flowers, the artichokes,





the honeysuckle hedge,





her own Garden of Gethsemane.





On and on she weeps





& whimpers.





is it a domestic?





has some one died?





you want to call out: “RUOK?”





ring the front door bell





but desist:





if you want to have a bawl in your backyard





you should be allowed to





without being interrogated





or having someone write a poem





about you










    

  • pic by pinterest
    • 







			

	


			
				


	

							
Postman
						

			 / johnlmalone						 / 25 Comments
								

			


		

		








Postman





Though it coughs and sputters





when you first turn on the ignition





& blows out puffs of smoke





it means well;





and once it’s gotten over its little tantrum





it sets out





dutifully as a postman on its way.





my little car.















*pic courtesy of pinterest






			

	


			
				


	

							
Where I Hang Out
						

			 / johnlmalone						 / 30 Comments
								

			


		

		






Where I Hang Out.





this is where I hang out.





where I twist and shout.





just a car port, open shed





where I put ideas to bed.










open air studio





by the honeysuckle hedge





got plenty of poems out of that





though it’s taken me to the edge










still  it suits, does me fine.





in one hand a glass of wine





in the other tongs





the lamb cutlets are coming along










three chairs, one for books





one for feet, the other my bum





a rubbish bin, a bare globe,





the hum of bees










all my best stuff’s written here





it’s bit of  shambles, that’s clear





it’s nothing to write about





this is where I hang out






			

	


			
				


	

							
What Happened Out There ?
						

			 / johnlmalone						 / 25 Comments
								

			


		

		

Photo by Creative Vix on Pexels.com





Stephanie is out in the garden, chasing chooks out of the vegetable patch. She is some way from us, out on the back porch, so I’m surprised that she responds to something Rob says..





“Yes. I remember when …” and then her voice seems to get swallowed up.





”What’s that?” I say.





But she stands there helplessly waving her hands as if signalling to us to disregard what she has to say and to carry on our conversation. We do and when our friends leave, Steph comes over and sits beside me.





“What happened out there?” I ask. “Out in the garden?”





“What I was about to say got swallowed up,” she says.





“ Like by a sinkhole.” I say in my clumsy grammar.





“Yes’, she nods.





 “It’s okay,” I say, giving her a quiet hug. “Tell me when you remember.”