“My Mother was Right” and Other poems by S. Meggeson

Sean Meggeson lives in Toronto, Canada. He works full time as a psychotherapist. He has lectured on a diverse range of topics including: Lacan & James Joyce, Neurodiversity, and alternative rock music. He holds a M.A. in English Literature and Creative Writing from the University of Denver.

my mother was right

yup,
I’m greedy.

at least
for poetry,

its hidden,
funky
smells,
strangely-
moving body
parts, its
quiet yelps.
how it doesn’t
pay the bills.

I’m greedy for all the words!
greedy, like how I stamps
my feet—can’t wait
to jerk me!

GREEED-Y!

Make it be 1983 right now!

I’m standing in
general admission,
maple leaf stadium
at the serious moonlight tour.

the sound
system and light
show rock.
I try to look cool,
dance/not dance.
my feet are killing me.

what a sweet, little
boychik.

amoeba vodka love

when you’re drinking,
you’re all body and big talk. but
something else is there, hidden,

                                     desperate

and primate. a blind, breathless shaking,
the anticipation of a thumping that’s hunted
you forever.

                 the more you drink the more

it must seem I can be more than just with you here tonight.
you get to wanting me to inhabit your entire body

                                                                  physically,

blood-for-blood, bone-for-bone, cell-on-cell.

                                                          Well, here I am,

blade running you—opening another bottle for you
with surgically-gloved hands and masked dimples.

and isn’t this why when you drink you neither speak, laugh nor ball
any metaphors? because our carnal inter-

                                                     beings

can only exist if transcendence via metaphor is defunct?

(look, I’ve given this some thought.)

                                                        time

doesn’t pass if we’re amoebas and love is divorced from

                                                                             metaphor,

which is then to know love is not love.

(apologies, with gloved hands in prayer.)

what’s more real is we live in fear to admit

                                                       the vodka

can’t last, but the final fingered romance of its slow loss still wears
well on us shimmy-murdering sky dancers. drunk—very drunk now—
to forget that we can even hump a wire monkey if needs be.

at this dusty hour, the stores are closed and you’re out
of smokes—there must be another bottle around
here somewhere, hidden in your shoe, stashed in
in your car, tucked in your armpit or rotting
in your mouldy closet. our dish-ragged bodies

                                                                       transcend

absolutely nothing at this point—they’re aging normally, they’re
dreaming dead to rights into a pillow soiled with gob.
and the morning remains in hock,
or was it hoax,
or burnt toast?

maybe at this hour we start to believe we weren’t ever
drinking—no way, not us!—and the ashtray is only
filled with dinner mints and witty quips.
we believe we were only romancing,
purely fooling around for the fuck of it with you
actually reading Maurice Merleau-Ponty and

me

on the other side of town histling’ slow n’ easy,
maybe histling’ purdy under the mornin’ sun, ready
to whip up coffee & eggs to send special
delivery just for you.

                    the mailman smiles and says:

gather the day, children, for it fades fast.

Shaunie-Boy O’Mebungler

Your name might go down
in history tonight, laddie. Let’s see
how things play out on the field,
in the market, down the alley
or in the gents. The smart money’s
bunged up and the old bookie’s
done a bum rush
on the big holders. So,
no chedda munch-munch either way.
Just ya fame or ya shame.

Lose the razor-sharp yellowin’
snaggletooth and you’ve got a fit
face, laddie. But lemme tell ya:
word’s out on the street against ya t’nite and
ya might have t’ cold-cock some buddy and
run for it, ya ol’ chicken legs. Har-de-har!
Or, it might be ya hold the hardware behind
yer big back as the crowd drools
on yer slippers all the whiles holdin’
their hearts like a prison kit-lunch.

Not exactly what ya savvied, eh?
Irish exit’s sometimes all we got, you and me.
Ah, me-oh-pretty-me, I looks at ya and so fast feel warms to ya.
Truth, I may just cuddle ya—
or I may shiv ya—
while I bleedin’ snog ya!
Word’s out against ya!
Word’s out against ya! Har, har!

Me-oh-me, calm yurrself down,
(way the frig down)
no troubles…it’s all applause tonight, m’ Lordy.

M. Jean Gâteaumarcheur

Your name, you know, has been
whispered-and-hushed in some of
the finest eateries this side
of Pigtown.
You were le maître
who started the piss oyster craze—excusez-moi!—
plus tard en français, “pisse d’huître”
We all remember that golden night,
your face soured in long-time jouissance
as you produced a shining flask of
your own personal—la gulp!—”citron.”
Which you used so victoriously
comme une goutte.
Your silent mistress held bivalve
mollusc aloft with beautiful sad eyes
downcast as you performed the ablution.
“Ting-ting!” went the weeping scullery sluts.

I do pray I’m getting all this right.
As legend has it, there’s been so many
mistresses henceforth prostrated in ritual.
Is that pride or sadness in your stance?
I can see your face is still so soured.
Like the aftertaste of a death scream or of self-love?
The whistling goes you’ve emptied yourself
of fame now, and of the depressed layer cake
of, well, what some might call “relations.”
At least that’s the word, right?
Silence is a kind of correction, no?
I can see your mouth doesn’t even
want to quiver. You must love
being starved or you must be
so bored of being eaten of.
Pure, mon semblable, pure.

What’s that?

They said, “try to remember not.” You went a tiny bit insane??

Look, you wear it well.
I humbly refer you to tarot.
Mme. Sour-Pussy will show you her crabby cards.

Snapity-snap, napkin.

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