Saturday, February 21, 2015
Balls and Balls...Sonnet At the posh supermarket in Albufeira it sells Icelandic fishballs harvested from ten- year-old cods. They are white, and round just like other balls in size, say, meatballs, but they taste salty and tangy, perfect with chilled wine, almost like eating the Portuguese dish baccallao de nata the way they make it in Alentejo. The wine at this supermarket is overpriced, but some of them have fancy names on colourful labels as to make them more appetizing like we were going to eat the labels too. 99% of the shoppers are British and struts around patronizing us locals who came to gaze at the wonderful frozen food one can buy here as the English housewife cannot cook and take great pride in her incompetence.... men are hopeless too, that is why they go to British restaurants to eat pie with chips and mushy peas. I had friends, British – can you believe it- who lived here for years, when they needed cancer surgery they went to Britain to have it done, the waiting list was so long that both died; the Brits do not like being prodded by foreigner. So what was I doing here at this posh place? I had been told they sold smoked ox testicles here it was good for my flagging potency when I asked around the shop fell silent. No one knew. Insipid fishballs, but I saw men putting on their reading glasses for a closer look at shelves that sold foreign food.
Wednesday, February 11, 2015
After Ingmar Bergman And now that it is dawn And the sun will soon come over the mountain My wife’s warmth keeps me warm My screams of fear is now a murmur She dries spittle from my beard and speaks softly Soon she will get up and make coffee I let the aroma envelope me The terror of the night and death subsides and I will try to be kind and Believe in a god that will lift me up to his heaven And let me live forever. But who will publish my poetry collections?
Thursday, February 5, 2015
Consumerism We are getting old my wife and I we do not consume much. The washing machine is old and our car is going on fifteen, yet it starts but of course we no longer use it as often as before. This makes us poor consumers the ads on TV are not aimed at us. Today we bought a new TV, this pleased my wife it made her feel important and the shop staff called her madam. Assist death, the ultimate triumph of capitalism as those who cannot consume are redundant. The last expense is the casket, even here capitalism is pressuring relatives to buy an expensive one, no one will see unless attend the funeral. But as for now we are safe the new TV will keep us safe.