Comedy

The problem with comedy, my wife regularly reminds me, is that it's not funny.

This aphorism is oft repeated as we trudge home in the rain at the end of yet another desultory evening, through the ill-lit illicit back streets of one of the more affordable suburbs, having missed the last train home.

The Shower

Pitifully pleading absolution
I huddle in frigid morning air;
Tepid rivulets dribble down my back
Like a quiet evening in with R. Kelly.

“Hot water” inscribed in comic sans
On your plastic carapace by Lucifers’s scribe;
(The same that daubes “Research”
On Japanese whaling vessels)
Rips my retina with blinding lies.