ditch,

the poetry that matters

David Menear

David Menear currently resides in Toronto. He has spent most of his life between Toronto and Montreal, but has also lived in both London, U.K. & Divonne, France. Schooled in NYC. His short stories have been published in QWF/Carte Blanche & The Danforth Review. Poetry included in The International Nelson Mandela Tribute Anthology.

 

BOTTLE TO THE TABLE

So we bring the bottle to the table setting places then for everyone that needs to feel the truth filling our pewter vessels with water and with wine with our small concerns of self as important as the chaotic universe we must ignore asking seeking searching for understanding angry when the response seems unfair turning to tricks that please us powders and lace.

 

 

TIN MONKEY

My tin monkey frantic beats his drum ashen clouds shredding across moonless chalkboard sky crippled cars honking for Mom she fights forever patiently to put her fingers in the gloves ferns quietly unfold their secret mossy wings safe unseen these men will rape pirates scarring stealing sweet souls brothers lovers and fathers sharpen swords

 

 

FUZZY DIRTY

 

Where did you get a key to my door thinking it’s somehow OK to walk right in and sit right down look at and through all my things assuming that they are secrets and peer out my window wearing my favourite shirt pretending you are me yet uninvited intruding upon my peace you’ll never find peace of mind that other lover you seek to kill was never born but you carry her forever within you as a child in the belly of your lonesome jealous soul.

Shunning all others you allow your mystic self the incubus his ancient bruising weight of myth thrusting hard towards the shameless pleasures of beasts without blame suspended somehow writhing between sleep and delirious dream or not.

That dust that slowly settles on our lives becomes a tiny tumbleweed of our fuzzy dirty intimacy hiding in the corners or rolling slowly back and forth across the broken ochre floor to rest in peace beneath our empty unmade bed in a place abandoned doors and windows nailed shut upon a stagnant still silence where nothing of us is remembered or remains excepting maybe an unfinished sentence or a question unanswered.

 

 

 

 

                                                                                                      January 4, 2014