in parentheses

Sean Meggeson is a poet, lecturer, psychoanalytic psychotherapist and moto-punk wannabe. He lives in Toronto, Canada and every time a poem gets published, his Swedish Vallhund gets a treat. His poems can be found in In Parentheses and Psychoanalytic Perspectives. Poem coming soon (woof, woof!) in SCAB magazine.

S. Meggeson has been previously featured by In Parentheses

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I Remember, Do I Eva, The Egyptian Pyramids of Mexico
“I love it–I just love it.” —Franklin D. Roosevelt

I ruled there last season,
taking more selfies
than any O.G. can literally count,
proving my age (so shy of 80)
goes backwards and holds a riddle
same as the Mayan Sphinx of NWA.

Listen, yo: I sprinted to El Castillo’s top, where
I crushed 100 push-ups, slayed 500 squats,
benched certified dimes ‘bove
m’ tank-tough titties ADL.     
“Ripped” doesn’t cut it, bro!

I remember the Sahara whipping up
my followers as they slurped  
licuados de plátanos
and partied with candied-colored
Lambos in the background.

God,
do I remember every stone I scraped to descend
and stomp earth, where barrio Poet Laureate
one-‘n-only, Maestro Jorge Luis Borges, 
embraced me, shirtless, gold-chained ‘n all.

JLB (epic BDE, yo) said to me
(FON/from Old Norse):
“You’ve hacked the Vichy
cream mysteries of the ancients.
Let me now present you with the
mad platinum Panthères de Cartier
for your contributions to humanity.”
*Fist pump*
Time totally stood still—I killed it.

Hit me up in November! LFG!

We’ll be soaking up sweet Coliseum vibes
at the sick Norwegian Valley of the Kings.
Low-key your molly, and get good ready
your supplications, crackers.
SRSLY

Don’t You Love That Little Monkey

Stand closer and listen to his song. Stand closer and see him laugh and dance. Blow him a kiss, give him a smile. Plant a smooch or two. Just don’t forget a little money for the little monkey! Make the coins ring in his tin cup. Give his tiny hand a shake. The little guy has five fingers and is ready to break the bank, fund your mortgage, and wish you the best for a healthy-wealthy new year. Look at him dance. His little body like yours perchance. He has all the money. If money could dance, it would dance the monkey money-maker. Let loose a bit and dance the monkey money-maker dance. Can’t you feel it? It’s in the hips, darling. Look, he’s smiling just at you. His monkey-pumper is soft on you! Toss The Monkey Prince another coin. Make it copper, silver, gold or better. Do his dance and make him show you teeth. Yes, yes, my hand is in your pocket. (Oh, you gettin’ there! Worry not, I’ll keep it entre nous.) You, me and The Monkey, three friends dancing. DJ, spin that “Baby Love,” 1964. Who me? I just came here for vacay. I had no idea my thesis on Lacan would come in handy. [1] Move on me like that again and I’ll end you.

Bad Waits for Bad

Don’t try me, puss—I know your penny loafer-
  pinching soul like I know the feel of bad,
    black leatha shriveled by tin bucket swill.

You can try to retreat into the arms of, you know, Gaaad, and
  I suppose I cannot compete with Hissy arms,
    the mighty, muscled defences.

But, even there, bad waits for bad.

Like you completed manifold good works,
  or didn’t fake your prayers or loving words?

    Remember: every blade of grass has doubt.

Can I remind you of the mower?
  Can I invite you to bite the dust?
    Because it holds to your nice body?

Yes, I can see your new, comfy puffer vest.
  Assume a stellate pose for me.
    I told you so, I told you so.   

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[1] “Lacan’s Banana: Peeling Social Symptoms as Body Events,” thesis submitted in partial fulfillment of requirements for Masters of Philosophy, The University of Chicago, 2004.

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