Weasels are
like husbands: they wear tweed coats and pop out of nowhere in the night.
Zeitgeists
are like pomegranates: no one knows where they come from, and it’s not always
worth the effort to dissect them.
Houndstooth
patterns are like abandoned symphonies: in most cases we’re better off without
them.
Persimmons
are like the Canary Islands: I always forget what they are.
Sex between,
or among, consenting adults is like candy floss: a little bit will make you
sick, but after a certain amount you hardly notice it and wonder why you didn’t
try it sooner.
Sports
scores are like afternoon séances: the level of abstraction is breathtaking.
A quiet
drive in the country is like a shoehorn: if all goes right, you’ll be up and
around again before you know it.
Studio
musicians—even mediocre ones—are like eavestroughs: you spend all your time
staring at them when you could be doing other things.
Reclining
chairs are like skyscrapers: once they’re up, you might as well leave them like
that.
Collecting
Iron Age statuary is like keeping a Vietnamese pot-bellied pig as a pet: it’s
great at first but then…time to move on!
The sands of
the hourglass are like the dials on a computer: you know they’re there for a
reason, you just can’t imagine what it might be.
Strangers
encountered by chance are like the calm before the storm: no definition until
after the fact.
Predilections
for avocados are like two-faced liars: if you humour them but keep them under
control, no one needs to know a thing.
Conventions
for catapult enthusiasts are like dachshunds: if you haven’t read the manual,
you might as well forget it.
The White
Cliffs of Dover are like honey: best when hard!
Binoculars
are like sheep: turn them the wrong way and you’ll get a surprise.
The lives of
others are like dowsing rods: try getting by without either one, and you’ll see
what I mean.
Syntax is
like the memory of a terrible nightmare brought on by stress about the state of
the world: you can think about it for as long as you want, but nothing will
change until you look in the mirror and ask yourself, Why does it have to be this way?
Searching
for answers is like a motor with no moving parts: it won’t put bread on the
table, but what’s the harm?
Desire is
like water: you can put it in a bottle and fly it around the world, but it
still drives you up the wall.
Interplanetary
travel is like finding something you didn’t pay for at the bottom of your
grocery bag: just enjoy it for what it is and let others worry about the
ramifications.
Maintaining
consciousness is like a red wheelbarrow: if you ask the experts, everything
depends on it.
Skydiving on
an empty stomach is like amnesia: the moment you open your mouth, it’s already
too late.
Toxic
flowers are like good friends: if you bite them, no one will think twice about
it.
Libraries
are like melancholy children: they’re fine for what they are, but nothing will
ever replace a good bowel movement.
Vanity is
like a replica tortoise made out of porcelain: the one time you want to show
somebody, it’s nowhere to be found.
Doppelgängers
are like broken Jacuzzis: both have been the subject of novellas, and neither
one reacts to thunderclaps.
A piece of
cake is like a walk in the park: play your cards right and it won’t be your
last.
Clean, wet
Formica®™ is like
a house on stilts: besides the obvious, it’s almost certain that both have been
admired at some point or another by dragonflies.
A lunar
eclipse is like the first time you see a dog drink from a toilet bowl: it’s
kind of freaky, but everything returns to normal afterwards.
Butterflies
are like enemas: if you make enough money, you can have all you want.
Steve
Venright [photo credit: Samuel
Andreyev.] is a visual artist and author whose books include Floors of Enduring Beauty (Mansfield
Press, 2007) and Straunge Wunder; or, The Metalirious Pleasures of
Neuralchemy (Tortoiseshell & Black, 1996). Through his Torpor Vigil Records label, he has released such extraordinary recordings as The Tubular West by Samuel Andreyev and Dreaming Like Mad with Dion McGregor (Yet
More Outrageous Recordings of the World’s Most Renowned Sleeptalker). His
selected and new writings—The Least You Can Do Is Be Magnificent—will be
published in the fall of 2017.
Inspired by
René Magritte’s painting Sixteenth of September, Steve was (eventually)
born on that date in 1961.
the Tuesday
poem is curated by rob mclennan
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