Apparently, April is National Poetry Month in America. According to US constitutional law, this means that for a whole 30 days, citizens must converse only in Haiku form or rhyming couplets. Those who refuse are labelled communists and have their feeding tubes removed. I know, I know, it sounds freakin’ crazy, but remember folks, this is America we’re talking about. Home of the catchphrase: “Only in America”. Oh, and that one that goes “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up”.

Golf Widow is doing her patriotic best, by doing all her posts in Haiku form this month.

I hate trying to write Haikus. Because I can’t count.
A haiku is meant to be an “unrhymed verse form, having three lines containing usually 5, 7, and 5 syllables respectively”.
But when I try to do a haiku, it generally comes out something like this:

This may not work like (5)
A haiku is supposed to (7)
Because I suck at Maths. (8)

We don’t have a poetry month in New Zealand, probably because most of us are illiterate. We can hardly even manage to fill out court documents and unemployment benefit forms properly. And when we do attempt poetry, it’s normally about hookers, hand-jobs, drunkenness and/or sheep.

Anyway. Here’s one of my offerings in honour of National Poetry Month:
(I know most people hate long poems, so I’m keeping it really short.
It’s dedicated to The Pope and anyone who’s ever been down the Walkers Lane alley in Soho, London, and wondered “Gee, I wonder what would happen if some stinking, drunken bum decided to go on a stinking, drunken rampage through here…”)

We're all lying in the gutter, but some of us are face down...

This guy was a dry blood-streaked blur.
He'd been arguing with two whores on the corner
About hand-jobs, and how they wouldn't touch the bum
Which was fair comment,
I thought.

I saw the suits and skinheads first,
Terror in their footsteps;

I turned and saw that face,
That had been in a thousand fights
Looking for another
From anyone.
He had a knife

Nine inches, at least
Ready to bury deep
Into the retreating shadows.

What was I thinking?
Be a hero ...

Then I froze.

That was no knife he'd pulled, but an unopened bottle of white,
And I realized
That this guy wasn't just mad, he was totally insane -
What kind of wino would smash such a prize
Over somebody else's head?
With this man's face, it would take hours to earn another.

The alleyway rampage ended in tears.

The prostitutes
Had protection nearby.
The runners down Walkers Lane,
Ran afraid, but unhurt.

The man with the bottle
Tripped over a black rubbish bag.

His face broke his fall, as his weapon exploded
on a footpath, in a lunchtime part of Soho.

We left him lying in the gutter,
Gazing at stars...

Anyways, on an unrelated topic …

It’s always good to visit your folks. Journey back to your home town. Trip down journey lane, and all that. Or is it?