O euf Ouvre David MacGregor
A poem in five minutes. Starting now.
O euf Ouvre David MacGregor
A poem in five minutes. Starting now.
ÂŠCopyright 2014 David MacGregor www.macgregormedia.com
This project is a ditty based on the notional fragment of a germ of an idea I had while farting about on Facebook one afternoon. What if I set a time limit for writing a poem - five minutes, tops? Syncs nicely with the arrival of an egg shaped egg timer added to a Fishpond order to make up the balance on some Moleskine notebooks bought with a Christmas gift voucher. Hence Ouef + Ouvre…if I must be ouvert. The poems are stream of conscious. If it’s ryhme you want: The boy stood on the burning deck… If it’s grammar you want or iambic pentameter I apologise in advance. This is just a proof - it’s not finished - though the verses were completed on the prescribed weekend.
Number 1 3’’.5’ You don’t look me in the eye but I can feel your gaze across the room I’m looking out across the square between the droplets on the pane I see your form behind me tinged orange by the halogen faze when I turn to confront your stare I’m alone I didn’t hear you go. Or the clack of the latch falling into place.
Fugit 2â€™â€™.23â€™ A quicky Trembling knee Not behind the bike sheds Shedding inhibition Letting go farewell to punctuation abandoning senses and tenses past and present rising to the moment of our demise defies convention defiles the hard drive the driven beat of riven meets myst and past trysts quickly gathering tempo tempus Ah, fugit.
Hope against HOP 3”32’ Mrs Marr said my scones were good in food tech maybe a little less baking soda might have made them edible First period is always a drag on Thursday The walk to room nine is a pain on days like today wind and rain lashes through the uncovered walkway and I arrive at class looking like a drowned rat At least that’s what poppa Mike would say I don’t get why maths is so hard the numbers mock me i calculate the time before the bell in this little hell where the smell of soaked jerseys steams up the windows Afternoon sports is a relief I don’t need a note to sit on the sidelines my palsey means ball sports are disabled as an option so I listen to my Micheal Jackson Moonwalk in my head and hope against HOP there’s enough cash on my card for the bus home.
Calmer 4”19’ Little Buddha statues around the house in nooks near books and pictures of grannies But they don’t seem to work Enlightenment doesn’t arrive Artfully arranged to appear on demand His eyes don’t follow me Though once I’m sure he winced when I quoted him convinced it made me holier than thou I don’t follow him either it’s just a dodad dharma So it’s only karma
Behind you 0”59’
i can’t find it. Have you looked? i’ve looked everywhere. Where have you looked everywhere What’s that Oh.
Passive Aggression 3”32
The news is bad I don’t know how to tell you this you’re not going to like it maybe you should sit down I know I promised sometimes these things just happen we’ll get through it I know we will We have to be flexible we have to pivot attitude will see us through Keep Calm and Carry On look it’s on the poster on the wall next to the fridge where the maple syrup would be if you really did want pancackes.
The sin of omission 3”15’
How many is that? I count sixteen There were more to begin with she said with that slight accusatory glance in my direction Why do I feel guilty when I have nothing to feel bad about? I’ve been wrong before the trend is my treacherous friend trust has gone out the window self doubt perches on the bookcase like a literal, literary mockingbird and then she finds it tucked beneath the pile We’re good to go She says as if the nothing that happened didn’t happen.
Echo 3”18’ With your noisy look-at-me ways your flamboyant tributes to yourself catching glimpses in mirror shades reflecting on your outfit what were you thinking you’re thinking I wonder if underneath it all you would prefer to simply fade into the background a matte finish in a glossy world but even that would stand out you just can’t help yourself can you
Irony in an iron fist 4”18’ Downtown
Red row Somewhere there’s a list polished by the overfed of registered bibliophiles MTV overhead card carrying downtime freaks the stuff of page-turners downtown the bane of book burners upside turn the volume up to eleven wifi bay for blood filtercoffee if the subject is why not the struggle hey mister spare change bus fumes rubble flumes haircuts suits froot loops cardboard signs its who you know you know gotta go gotta go gotta go
Good Grief Two 1”13’ Hold my hand while we cross the road I’ll keep you safe Hold my hand we’ll do this together Hold my hand it takes my mind off the pain Let go when you’re ready but hold me in your heart
Good Grief 0”25’
You’re crying crocodile tears lying there while I’m lying here unflinching cooly going about the business of oblivion
Día de los Muertos 3”03’ Remember those pictures from Baja? I didn’t realise till they were developed You were tanned and full of life and Margaretas We bathed in the unforgiving sun soaking in its warmth laughing at the poor sods back home in the pall of winter the light dazzled us The hombre cooking spicy fish tacos on the beach seemed happy would have been happier if we bought some coke with our Coke I found the roll the other day at the back of a drawer from the locker deep shadows in your eye sockets like catrina.
Hard Sell 2”22’
I’m sure there’s an autobidder out there who wants what I want cyborg stalking my predilections Anytime I get close to my threshold of my heart’s desire my gesamtkunstwerk of mid century perfection i’m gazumped Maybe if I change my taste gave something fresh a lick give ray and charles the flick but everything else gives me the chintz
Fuge State 4â€?19â€™ The alien voice seems familiar and strange the burrr on the r gives me chills the skurrrrl of the pipes that I used to hate marched out on the eighth quart in swappacrate time now reminds me of the place where I grew but never knew the distant close near Sauchiehall Street with its grim grimy grey bricks in bleak black and white fixing smiles against the grain of a cheap 4 x 4 with white border glossing up reality in its Sunday best the murky photos sharp contrast to the kiwi son
David MacGregor lives and breathes in Auckland New Zealand. He regrets to inform you that he regrets nothing. He claims copyright on the words and pictures in this volume but makes no claim to their quality - which a priori after all