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