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Poem

John Forbes

Ode to Tropical Skiing

Ode to Tropical Skiing

Ode to Tropical Skiing

After breakfast in the Philippines
I take a bath
                                         & it’s a total fucking gas

Enjoy the ice cream, Gerald,
                           the sun sparkling
                           on its white frostiness
is the closest you’ll ever get to St Moritz
racing up the tiny snow fields on the side of a pill
                           as beside you the young girl’s
mirrored goggles reflect all Switzerland
like a chocolate box at the speed of sound
                           & like the ashtray he/she you & it
                           are a total fucking gas


Asleep in
the milk bars
daylight saving annuls our tuxedo
                                       & happy to breathe again
like a revived dance craze
we gulp fresh air, our speeches to the telephone
                            so various,
                                                    so beautiful—
                                      who loves at close range
                                      like they do thru a tube?
& when the sun polishes the wires gold then invisible
                                      a million cheer-up telegrams
                                      collapse in the snow
while Mandy & I have a glass of Coca-Cola
                                      as we fly past the moon &
after the piano goes to sleep in our arms
                                                 we wake up
                                                 & it’s a total fucking gas
                                                 Was that a baby
or a shirt factory?
no one can tell in this weather, for tho
the tropics are slowly drifting apart & a
                                       vicious sludge blurs
                             the green banks of the river, a chalet
drifts thru the novella where I compare thee
                             to a surfboard lost in Peru,
                             flotsam like a crate of strong liquor
                                                            that addles our skis
                                                            & when they bump
                                                                    it’s a total fucking gas
Close

Ode to Tropical Skiing

After breakfast in the Philippines
I take a bath
                                         & it’s a total fucking gas

Enjoy the ice cream, Gerald,
                           the sun sparkling
                           on its white frostiness
is the closest you’ll ever get to St Moritz
racing up the tiny snow fields on the side of a pill
                           as beside you the young girl’s
mirrored goggles reflect all Switzerland
like a chocolate box at the speed of sound
                           & like the ashtray he/she you & it
                           are a total fucking gas


Asleep in
the milk bars
daylight saving annuls our tuxedo
                                       & happy to breathe again
like a revived dance craze
we gulp fresh air, our speeches to the telephone
                            so various,
                                                    so beautiful—
                                      who loves at close range
                                      like they do thru a tube?
& when the sun polishes the wires gold then invisible
                                      a million cheer-up telegrams
                                      collapse in the snow
while Mandy & I have a glass of Coca-Cola
                                      as we fly past the moon &
after the piano goes to sleep in our arms
                                                 we wake up
                                                 & it’s a total fucking gas
                                                 Was that a baby
or a shirt factory?
no one can tell in this weather, for tho
the tropics are slowly drifting apart & a
                                       vicious sludge blurs
                             the green banks of the river, a chalet
drifts thru the novella where I compare thee
                             to a surfboard lost in Peru,
                             flotsam like a crate of strong liquor
                                                            that addles our skis
                                                            & when they bump
                                                                    it’s a total fucking gas

Ode to Tropical Skiing

Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Prins Bernhard cultuurfonds
Lira fonds
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère