The ghost of Leonard Cohen

 “Ah but don't go home with your hard-on 

  it will only drive you insane” 

                               L.C. 

I saw the ghost of Leonard Cohen 

On stage the other night; 

the latter hatted version 

gave me one hell of a fright 

His form was recognisable 

but his cheeks were hollowed out 

like he’d done a round or two 

wif the grim reaper, in a one-sided bout. 

His voice was reduced to a whisper 

as he leaned into the microphone 

and the audience leant in too 

until they caught a whiff of his rotting bones. 

His skin was thin as rice paper 

his range, totally shot — 

like an AI programmed hologram 

or a poorly assembled bot. 

The ghost of Leonard Cohen 

had seen better days, 

but for the punters who paid to see him 

it was pretty much all the same 

towards the end of his performance 

he took a seat on a raised platform 

at the back of the stage; 

crossed his legs, closed his eyes 

and appeared to disengage 

just like that, he was wheeled out

ready for the next late-night show 

on an anonymous lil stage somewhere 

god only knows — 

I swear I saw the ghost of Leonard Cohen 

bumming cigarettes at the bar 

whatever he went home with that night 

I can testify, 

was most definitely — 

hard. 

 ©️ alan w jefferies

“Thirty poems: 2022-2025”

Stance

 

When did I become him

                                                                                                                                                                                                                       

    

When did I become him

when did I become that gormless twat
who walks up to complete strangers at the mall
and starts telling them their life story like they were a guest
on an episode of “This Is Your Life!”

who keeps talking long after the other party has stopped listening
or quite often, when they’ve totally walked away —
(left the state)
who has been left conversing with trees, butterflies, windscreen
wipers…

who yeah, nah, yeah, nah

can’t get to the point without taking a side road round the houses
and when he reaches the main fork forgets where he started
and why;

who falls in love with sales people
whose discount deals are like personal invitations to candle-lit dinners
who comes back again and again spending their hard-earned
just so someone, someone he deeply cares for, will speak to him
like his life meant something—
when in reality she couldn’t give two roots whether he lived or died.

who ran up on Gough Whitlam at the airport long after he left politics
assailing him with decades-old stories that made no sense to anyone
who wasn’t there;
poor old Gough just kept walking straight ahead —
purposely not averting his eyes like the Giant that he was;
being yapped at by an over-excited Chihuahua.

when did I become that plonker

somewhere between Steve Irwin in terms of enthusiasm
and a billy goat in terms of being able to appropriately read
the reactions of others.

who earned the nickname “the marijuana kid” by going down to the nearest
Queensland RSL and telling anyone who’d listen (including the local drug-squad
detectives) about his wild days smoking weed in the merchant navy
when in all likelihood it was a blunt or two at most.

who turns up to someone’s crib he met only once 12 years ago
with an overly-friendly “Remember me?!”
only to be told to fuck off or they’ll let loose their hounds!

whose solution to other people expressing opinions different from his own
is to up the volume and continue talking 

like an out-of-control steamroller.

so, yeah, nah, yeah nah

when did I become that guy?

who’s been left outside on a freezing night
after his girlfriend whose bed he was sharing
decided his best mate who was crashed on the couch
was a better prospect, or a better root,
or both;

who wears shorts, t-shirt and thongs all year round in all weather
even when it’s ten below and blowing a gale
just so someone more appropriately dressed might ask,
“Aren’t you cold?”

and he can rattle off the long convoluted story
about the time he climbed Mount Wellington outside Hobart
in a blizzard at night dressed only in garbage bags
(a story that anyone who has known him 

more than a week
has heard multiple times)

so yeah, nah, yeah
when did I become him —that absolute fucking 

gormless plonker;
my dad.

Close Encounters of the Poetic Kind: a collection of poetry by poets from Australia and New Zealand

 

                  Poems were translated into Bosnian and Turkish languages by Vesna Suljic 

                  and Hehtap Ozer Isovic. The volume was published by the University of Sarajevo.

                

Cha: An Asian Literary Journal — from Six Poems

 

Cha : An Asian Literary Journal

Thanks to Poetry Editor: Tammy Lai-Ming Ho 

“Social Alternatives” (Vol. 43 : 1)