My wife runs the bar, here.
So, what’ll it be? Beer? Whisky? Gin?
She won’t quit until you order something,
and leave with your head starting to spin.
The booze doesn’t keep me, here.
There’s more to us than that.
She’s got my heart taped to the wall behind her:
Past the bottles, and behind the tat.
Love is on the menu; now see, here.
The ‘bar’ is just a metaphor, to say she lifts me up
Higher than the hardest spirit,
from the lightest of her cups.
Clock out fifteen minutes early, mate.
Go back to the missus, food on the plate.
Honestly, all this stuff – client’ll have to wait.
Not like them to complain that it’s late.
Nah, we all insist. Get yourself home.
You don’t want to be sat here all alone.
CEO and directors’ choppers have all flown;
Can’t you hear the overhead winds groan?
I’ve no idea if we’ll be back on Monday.
Another factory closed down today.
Children in tattered clothes on the road still play.
Broken promises of escape are left to decay.
Starlight dotting the dark navy sky canvass,
now swirling quickly out of view.
Sunrise pushes circadian rhythms to horrible realities,
as another workday begins anew.
She is my perfect angel
lying sleeping on our bed.
I go and check on her hourly,
just to kiss her on the forehead.
If only she could feel
all that love, pushing and gushing within me,
then she would have the sweetest sleep
and dream so happily.
Christ, I’m so tired every day
and the boss won’t raise our pay.
People are falling through life
like Del Boy through a bar;
they think that they’re in control,
but they ain’t working down in payroll.
The union has been useless,
in that funny sort of way:
some old blokes on high pontificate,
leaving horrible HR to dominate
over tired, backstabbing workers laying prostrate.
Intolerable conditions bowl over you
like a mist of humid brutality.
You can’t see through it as it’s so thick
but Ol’ Occy’ Health has got a good trick:
attend the yoga classes three times a week,
but nobody actually wants to hear you speak.
You are just a nuisance here.
You are just a nuisance here.
Give us your labour just to tread financial water,
then offer self-hating colleagues up to the slaughter.
Cut the cord;
lift the lid.
Another cliched platitude,
from a mind left squalid.
Keep on truckin’;
get it together.
a million times more predictable,
than the fucking weather.
A red letter day;
no news is good news.
Yeah, this poem’s full of shit,
like a sack of refuse.
Three-line poem,
Creative juices are a-flowin’ –
the end.
The Disinterested Philosopher Gets By 