Television, radio, pancakes and God

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Selected poems



Looking at this television

Certainly gives me a view of life



The radio

Turns me on

With its deep male voices

And horny songs



Losing a stack of weight

Is better than stacking on the weight

However I can't eat a stack of pancakes.



You were my god

Now you're only a hot bod

Which I use only occasionally



Sitting here waiting for the train

In this station

I feel as static and automatic

And even as erratic

As this unreliable train



With this cheap yucky pen

I stain the page again and again

Almost causing it pain



Even when you give me tools

As part of my survival kit

I still feel like a fool

As I drool all over you and don't know what to do



Sorry to be so bossy

I would much rather

Be taken as sassy

Or even classy



How I hate this terrible sentence

Where my lips are sealed

And I can't even string a sentence together



I feel cut

As you give me many buts

Leaving me in a total rut



In bed

My hair turned into dreadlocks

My skin dull

My hair almost thatched

I can no longer catch your stare

When all was fair

And we looked like quite the

Star pair



I feel even more puzzled

Trying to put together

This awkward jigsaw puzzle

Wishing I could make it all dazzle



How I hate this place

It is no palace

And fills me with malice

Giving my life no balance



High hopes

High expectations

However the only dash of hope

I get is the splash of milk

In my startling coffee


Vending machine

As I go past this fattening vending machine

I vent all my anger out at all the bad junk food

Staring me right in the face

I feel it pushing all my buttons

How I wish it would come crashing down

And even go underground



Slowly getting a feel for things

Even when I am off keel

And literally getting around on wheels

While trying not to slip on banana peels



Too much time on my hands

Is getting out of hand



So so tired

I can't keep up with anything

Too tired to fight

Too tired to use all my might

Even to pull my baggy knickers up

And belt in tight

I certainly do not feel myself

Getting everything right



Looking at this little flower

Which you carried from the outside world

And pinned on my blouse

I want to really get into nature and

Even rapidly mature as a person



In limbo

Feeling like a bimbo

Wishing I could go out on a limb

And climb out of this deep hole

Which I have created for myself



As I sit here in the silence

You give me no license

To be myself



I'm too quick for you

Even when giving you a quickie

However at other times

When we make love slowly

It feels so holy



Climbing these stairs

I no longer feel in despair

About falling down these stairs

And even do it with flair

I can feel myself almost walking on air



Loving being under your wing

You don't miss a thing



You know me so well

And even wish me well



Isabella FelsIsabella Fels is a Melbourne poet and writer. She has been published in various publications including Positive Words, The Big Issue and The Record.

Topic tags: Isabella Fels, poetry, health


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Existing comments

I love your work Isabella. This time I read not only a clever play on words, but an expose of the trivialisation of mental illnesses that is currently trendy.
Sheelah Egan | 25 October 2017

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