The One Night Stand

Wednesday, December 31, 2008

THE ONE NIGHT STAND

Copyright 2008 by Philip Cairns

I’m mooning over a delectable one night stand.

Rich black hair and skin the colour of porcelain.

A delicious ass to slurp over.

I walked home, afterwards, in the dark, with the snow falling.

Christmas lights were twinkling and blaring out their Christian message.

If it were summer,

I would have sat on a bench,

In the park,

And written this poem.

But a frozen ass wouldn’t have helped the words flow,

I don’t think.

Near home,

A crack whore and a tall man came whisking out of a parkette walkway,

Making me tense up and move faster.

She was babbling in a sluttish, low-class voice,

Telling her companion about one of her recent conquests

Where she almost got ripped off in the negotiating process.

Every third word she said was “fuck” or “fuckin’.

As I rounded the corner onto King Street in Parkdale,

There were more seedy characters smoking outside a bar

And still others scurrying somewhere, as the wet snow got deeper.

An eccentric young man, who lives in my building,

Was getting into the elevator with a shopping cart full of pop bottles

And other things.

I stayed back and waited so as to avoid contact with him.

Now, here I sit,

Replaying the tape, in my head, of the night’s sexual encounter.

I’ll spare you the gory details,

Except to say that he was rather passive

Yet exhibitionistic.

Physically, he was perfection.

Just my type!

Exactly what I was seeking.

Thank you, Goddess.

Yet I feel like I’m reaching out to hug a phantom

Who evaporates into mist

Just when I cuddle up to him.

You stretch out your arms

And the shiny golden being turns into grey ether

And then vanishes like a ghost.

I’m reaching out for a better life,

To make my dreams a reality,

And I wake up and there is nothing but a faded, ephemeral hope.

Last night, I dreamed I murdered my parents.

The scheme was very elaborate,

With the threat of a long prison sentence

Always hovering over the proceedings.

In reality, they have long been dead and I have never been to prison.

(Knock on wood.)

The sweet young man without a name

Left with his friend and I went home alone.

A tiny, sweet taste of Asian ice-cream is better than no dessert at all.

I know what you’re thinking.

How could I call it a sumptuous meal

When I feel so empty in the pit of my stomach?

I won an Oscar but when I went on stage to claim it,

The gold statuette melted in my hands

And dribbled down into a hot puddle at my quaking feet.

The star-studded audience roared with laughter,

As I ran to hide in the wings.

There’s nothing to be done except to wake up, tomorrow.

To move forward and live.

Just breathe through another optimistic day.

Now, I am smiling and singing.

Trapped

Monday, December 15, 2008

TRAPPED

By Philip Cairns

Copyright 2008 by Philip Cairns

In the dark of the night,

The ghost said, “I am trapped.

Forlorn and confused.

Without hope or love.

Screaming, endlessly.

Not knowing who these people are that I see.

Help me. Help my soul.

I don’t feel dead.

But not alive, either.

No hope of redemption.

No sex. No life.”

I can feel the ghosts all around me,

Like watching movies of my past life.

Having sex with the well-hung dwarf.

It was slurpy and awesome.

But I don’t even know his name.

The gorgeous Asian man

Walked the halls in a white towel.

Thick hair sticking up,

Like a frightened cat.

He paid no attention to me.

I hate it when I can’t have what I want.

The ghost said, “Find my roots.

Give me some clothes to wear.

Is this purple ectoplasm fashionable?

I wouldn’t spend that kind of money

On a Fendi bag.

Did I do something wrong?

I’m so tired.

I’m feeling the effects of the enormous full moon.

No trust. No nothing.

I don’t even have Casper to talk to.”

The lilacs burst into bloom in the white winter.

Their bouquet was fragrant and pungent.

The dwarf is like a phantom in my life.

Fabulous sex, once a year, or so.

He said he shaved off his hair

Because it was too grey.

“What’s wrong with grey hair?,” I asked.

The ghost shrieked, “I’ve been trapped here

For endless time.

I love children.

I don’t want to scare them.

Have they been street-proofed against

Talking to me?

I’m frightened and lonely.

Everyone screams when they see me.

What am I, some kind of a freak or something?”

Hello, my name is Virgil and I am an alcoholic.

I can’t get the line to answer.

The ghost said, “I’ve been walking these halls for centuries.

Where is God when I need him?

What day is this?

What century?

Why can’t I sleep?

I want a hug.

I need a dwarf to put some passion in my bed.”

The palette is gray,

Like some colour-blind painter.

He should stick to graphite drawing, then.

Penetrating a vagina is not one of my goals in life.

However, it might be nice to come back

As a lipstick lesbian.

I could wear fabulous evening gowns

With sequins and blue chiffon.

Do the red carpet bit

And not have to worry about getting pregnant.

I don’t aspire to performing the missionary position.

The ghost shouted, “ Listen to me.

Hear my pleas.

Doesn’t anyone understand me?

I speak but no one seems to listen.

I’m frightened of the dark

But I can’t turn on the lights.

What did I do to deserve this fate?

Can anyone change $5 so I can do my laundry?

Fuck you all.

Leave me alone.

I just want to sleep

And see an angel or two.

Dracula is not my cup of tea.

This perpetual bleakness is haunting me.

I don’t know what I’m saying, anymore.”

The waves lapped against the sand.

It was hot and sticky.

The salt water soothed my burning feet.

I love the sounds of the ocean.

The seagull said, “I’m happy and free.

This is the greatest life.

I scream for joy.

I’ve got it made.”

He wasn’t even aware of the presence of ghosts.

The painter stood in the sand

With the perfect colour on his brush.

He had money and fame and talent.

The artist was at peace with his life.

Slapping gorgeous colours onto the canvas.

Life was very good, he thought,

Planted in the wet sand, barefoot,

Painting a blissful scene.

He was contented and secure in his talent.

He acknowledged everything.

The ghosts of the past had been laid to rest.

The ghost squeaked, softly, “What about me?

Am I merely dead?”

Life was extremely good for the Beatnik painter.

Enough money and paint.

Yes.

A talent to rival Monet’s.

The Weekend Was Cancelled

Saturday, December 13, 2008

THE WEEKEND WAS CANCELLED

Copyright 2008 by Philip Cairns

Slithering, withering, frightening, foe.

Blue ectoplasm morphing across dreams

Of past imagined triumphs.

The shimmering form, looking like the Phantom of the Opera,

Standing beside my bed when I was ten years old.

Pastel pink and mauve washing across acid-free paper.

Pipedreams of glory sitting tight inside my left brain.

Halloween goblins jumping out to scare me.

Janet Leigh being stabbed in the “Psycho” shower.

The theatre director demanded that I use a real knife

When I slit my fellow actor’s throat.

A similar incident mistakenly drew real blood

In a silly play in Italy.

Thank God I have more sense and control.

Soothing music seeping into my clean-as-a-whistle ears.

Fantasizing about Tony,

With the innocent face

And bad breath and long nose hairs.

Nothing has come of it

For that’s the ways it always seems to work out.

Stuck in the red brick well,

Like the plus-size woman in “Silence of the Lambs”.

Some asshole is hammering on a sub-zero day.

Give the fucker a sketchbook and crayons

Or tie him to a chair, for Christ sake.

Painting barefoot in the sand on a hot day at the Big Sur,

Just like Liz Taylor in “The Sandpiper”.

She’s had a glorious life, Liz has,

For the most part,

And now she’s on death’s door.

I want her to leave me her jewellery collection

But fat chance!

Old friends drift away

But they still send Christmas cards.

No cheque enclosed, this time,

Part of Daddy’s estate.

Lucky bitch!

Is life one big disappointment or do I simply expect too much?

There’s got to be more than

Aloneness and television,

Credit cards and telemarketing jobs.

Listen to more Joni Mitchell.

That’ll make you want to slit your wrists.

Van Johnson and Odetta just died.

They probably never met down here.

Neither will come back to haunt me

Since they don’t know me from Adam.

The hammering is pissing me off.

There’s nothing to be done

But to continue the day

And try to fill it with joy and pleasant activities,

As best I can.

There’s always so many thoughts rushing through my head.

Last night, the full moon was so bright, big and beautiful.

It hasn’t been that close to Earth in 15 years.

That’s worth the price of admission

On this run down movie screen planet.