Brindle/Roused/Hoot/Dishes/Wasted Allit/Paddling – by LINDSAY MCLEOD

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Sky high cholesterol,

low self esteem,

out in the cold

while the cat gets the cream


the cat gets nine lives

while the dog gets its day

now I ask you …

where’s the justice in that?




Prince Charming’s kiss

my ass!

It was her own snoring

that woke her.




The trouble with trouble

is it starts out as fun,

then before you know it,

all the fire escapes collapse

and someone’s running around

screaming with their hair alight

and oh good… someone saved

me a seat at the massacre.




If we lived as though

every day were our last

well then, who the Hell

would do the dishes?




Entire potholed pages of

my unpaved pathways were

swallowed whole by recycled

sly threadbare threats from

secondhand matchstickmen,


their purposefully polished

pageant of empty eggshells

carefully ensnaring what

little was available of my

biological impermanence,


colouring my calendar with

lurid bruises, weightless worship

verifying vanity’s vendetta,

until, until, here I am again

adrift in unfamiliar waters.




Turns out that just beyond the horizon

were not dragons but a heart’s desire

so close that (who would’ve guessed?)

could be so fast squeezily reached with

nought more than an oarful of dwarves.



Lindsay McLeod trips over the horizon every morning. His poetry has this year found homes in FIREFLY, THE FAT DAMSEL, BURNINGWORD, FIVE2ONE, LEAVES OF INK, WORDS DANCE, FOLIATE OAK, DASH, BIRD’S THUMB and AMARYLLISHe currently writes on the sandy Southern edge of Australia, where he watches thesea and the sky wrestle for supremacy at his letterbox. He prefers to support the underdog. It is presently an each way bet.

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