11 February 2016


Thinking you’re getting away with the minimum 
isn’t in this iteration of what drives men crazy - 
there’s the long planning sequence you missed 
to begin with; was it psychopathic, yet kept at a 
super-defused level of intransigence, of maybe 
secret latency you’d better get used to; for sure 
you’re trapped in it with 24 hours still to endure 
before the legal moment of emotional release 

You can complain, gee, it’s only Fathers Day, if 
that sort of insanity’s defence is being as weak 
minded as a nexus of ridiculous; reality says its 
everyones day to celebrate, otherwise you’ll be 
sipping a coldie watching the footie solo mate - 
it sometimes happens on the aforementioned

Then there’s the grander view; where our fairer 
sex’ demands aren’t negotiable because family 
considerations superordinate, and you’re stuck 
with it, so you’re into your rostered duty; prawn 
preparation & meat marination plus mushroom 
dip jus for the whole gang. At least it doesn’t, 

As yet, include ‘house grooming and cleaning’, 
which progresses with vapidness deflating the
evanescence you’d like to redress as soon as 
safe to do so; & meantime you keep in motion 
to defeat observations you’re bloody idle - the 
irony is, tomorrow’s your bloody birthday 
© 5 September 2015, I. D. Carswell