Poetry by Paul Maxim

The Omen
The groom stomped gauche on the cloth-wound glass,
that spurted unscathed across the floor
of their festal shrine like a slapstick pass
toward goal of a puck that could not score...

And ever after, their nuptial course
kept skidding across a tipsy tract:
rubbed raw, scuffed silly, shouted hoarse,
but never shattered, never intact.

One summer, to escape the oppressive heat,
I sprawled naked on the floor of my apartment
like some deranged and wasted billionaire.
-- Yes, it was cooler down there; my diminished stature
had measurably heightened my comfort.

On the other side of the world, standing on their heads,
an obscure race of day-laborers
learned of my exploit, and resolved to follow its precept.
Because they shunned the heat, men called them, "coolies"...
-- Look: you may see them now, cringing and writhing
in attitudes of perpetual self-abasement.

The Mason
He bricked up a wall
then scaled it down,
got stoned at the pub
and lodged there, plastered,
relieving the stress
on his upright member
by vaulting a buttressed
groin. The bastard.

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