Long Lines of Lies

image

Photographer: Unknown

I don’t know what to do

when they look into my eyes

expecting

the drawing they made of me

they rewrite me,

insert the cliche that hangs like a slave in the square

I feel their lies

tickle,

nuanced and lovely to the touch,

and me gracefully bludgeoned

eventually they find the door

and drag away their sharpened tongues

and behind

a mind reawakened –

coloured by Matisse

with words sprinkled in the lush greens of grass

Copyright © 2016 (Keith Nunes)

CONTRIBUTORS NOTE:
This poem makes sense of what I feel going on around me or at least what I perceive is going on.

Surfing

surfing

surfing

 

I don’t care I don’t care I don’t care

yes I do, sure I do, no I don’t

fuck-face fuzz

screaming ripped hamstrings

she says

“careless Ezra scratched me out”

I don’t know what to fucking say

should I be this old?

did I crawl all this way?

I’ll stop asking questions if they stop surfing Rosa

 

Copyright © 2014 Keith Nunes

CONTRIBUTORS NOTE:
Keith Nunes is a former newspaper journalist who now writes to stay sane. He’s been published widely Down Under and lives in rural Bay of Plenty with a retinue of nutters.

 

 

 

Garish

LeprechaunDancesRoundClear

garish

 

couldn’t praise enough

lurid little leprechaun

smeared with false hairlines and painted end-games

she’s only real during appointments

itemising her husband’s live-in lovers

failing to point out that she’s all squeezed in

never mind, you can buy yourself a personality

 

Copyright © 2014 Keith Nunes

CONTRIBUTORS NOTE:
Keith Nunes is a former newspaper journalist who now writes to stay sane. He’s been published widely Down Under and lives in rural Bay of Plenty with a retinue of nutters.

A passenger’s clarity

Trapped in Car

a passenger’s clarity

 

spoiled light, a has-been sheen

promises and promise left by the side of the road

as annoying as a rush-hour puncture

 

streaming out of the lustrous, jubilant morning

into late afternoon loss and tiredness

sitting behind the wheel she doesn’t acknowledge

my failure to change our lives

 

an overwhelming sense of staleness

brushes my face

I want to push the windscreen out

shout: “someone’s dying in here”

 

there’s hundreds of us moving steadily

in parcelled cars

suddenly aware

despite fevered efforts

we can’t find our way home

 

Copyright © 2014 Keith Nunes

CONTRIBUTORS NOTE:
Keith Nunes is a former newspaper journalist who now writes to stay sane. He’s been published widely Down Under and lives in rural Bay of Plenty with a retinue of nutters.