five poems
by Brenton Booth
War
Here again. Studying my reflection
on the writing room window.
Wishing I was someone else. Happy
I am no one else. Alone in an
age of nothing. The great writers
all gone. Even the great
athletes vanished without a trace.
Trapped in an age of paper
thin heroes with perfect white teeth,
and false, celebrated, tales of
woe. Sad, useless, fools: time will
gladly forget. Though time will
never forget beautiful "Marvellous"
Marvin Haggler, sprinting in
the freezing Cape Cod snow every
day at dawn, defiantly bellowing:
"WAR!!!" Or maybe even a forty-six
year old underground poet,
all alone, in a crappy home in Sydney,
Australia. Painstakingly etching
yet another unpublishable poem for
the growing unwanted pile.
Stubbornly punching the thick,
inescapable walls. Defiantly
bellowing: "WAR!!!" "WAR!!!" "WAR!!!"
The Sexy Blonde in the White Bikini
Sitting on my favourite seat for
the first time in months
under the giant eucalyptus trees
in Camperdown Park.
Drinking from a rapidly emptying
can of double Jack Daniels.
It was dark and raining earlier,
now clear with the sun
shining an exquisite, humming
yellow. Dostoyevsky's
"Notes from Underground" lovingly
placed next to me, gift wrapped
from the well-stocked bookstore on
King Street, I bought earlier
for a friend who really wants to read
it. A sexy young blonde
in a glowing white bikini, begins
sunbaking directly in front
of me on a large brown beach
towel: perfectly spreading
her ripe, irresistible limbs. I
quickly finish the can. A
joyous smile instantly forming
on my moist, delighted
lips. Immediately beginning a
new poem. The fourth
new poem written this week.
Nodding my head in
welcome delight. Some days just
couldn't get better.
One in a Million
When my father was still
alive and I lived in
that tiny apartment, below
street level, in the red-
light district, he once visited
me. A blonde familiar
hooker quickly zeroed in
on my father (who
had prostate cancer for
many years by that
time) and gave his long
neglected jewels a
slow audacious tickle.
The old man totally froze.
A smile I'd never seen
filling his entire instantly
glowing face. That
night between glasses,
we spoke about the
young blonde hooker.
The many times I'd
angrily brushed by her,
wishing she'd just
disappear. A magic woman.
What a fool I'd been.
Coffin
Until his
final breath,
Jim Morrison's
father never
listened to
a single
"Doors" track.
Resolutely
stating:
"Jimmy can't
sing." If there
is anyone
out there
struggling
to understand
the tragedy
of Herman
Melville's
"Moby Dick".
Look no
further,
than George
Stephen
Morrison.
Devoured
like
Ahab, by a
towering
pride. Not
even
death could
appease.
Inside its Nest
It is over forty-degrees
and I sit in my courtyard
for the first time in
years reading the latest
issue of Rattle. Dave
Newman's brilliant poem
about undeserved
humility amongst veterans
was one of the finalists
bringing an instant
smile to my face, that
one of the statesmen of
underground literature
had finally made it
in there. I notice a large
wasp nest on my awning
with two adult wasps
circling menacingly. I
quickly get the can of bug
spray from the kitchen,
soaking the confounded
wasps and their nest.
Immediately brushing the
nest onto the pavers by
the fallen wasps with
a small broom. A minute
later a third adult wasp
appeared, sombrely circling
the entire brutal murder
scene. "Must have been
some kind of menage-a-trois,"
I thought, instantly getting
it. I do my best to shoo the
broken-hearted wasp
from its late lovers, and
the fatal bug spray.
Aware, no matter what I do,
it won't work. Pouring
myself another stiff whiskey
in the kitchen moments
after, watching the helpless
wasp dying by its lovers
sides. Liver screaming. Still
trying to forget her.
Photo of Brenton Booth
BIO: Brenton Booth lives in Sydney, Australia. His work has appeared in hundreds of publications over the past decade, including New York Quarterly, Midwest Quarterly, and North Dakota Quarterly.