Of course, the sun comes out
when we’re locked up inside.
This morning I could have cried
and then removed all doubt.
I walked in and wanted to shout:
“Look, guys, I’ve tried,
and my efforts can’t be denied –
But I guess I’m not as devout!”
Toiling on a beautiful weekend
is something that I won’t get used to.
Our leisure time, they want to undo
and it’s a right we must defend.
Stand up to your bosses, tonight –
Workers of the World, unite!
Turning over the pages of Oscar Wilde,
I am as pretentious as he is ribald.
The weekend does come, then won’t call again,
Sooner than the Priests and Nuns can say “amen”.
God, tomorrow is standing up to the plate,
Ready to knock me past my sell-by-date.
Life is a cosmic ballet that I cannot win,
But then again, I don’t want to jack it in.
There’s something to be said for a man who keeps going,
Who doesn’t know when to quit, and shows no signs of slowing.
This poetry is by no means a way to escape,
It’s not like I have to scrimp and scrape.
It’s just that when I look out over the cliffs
And see myself in that group of working stiffs,
I cannot feel that life holds me in regard
As within the mirror of humanity, I am but a shard.
My girlfriend is good for me to confide to,
She is my anchor, companion, and support crew.
But feelings of despair run unfathomably deep;
Recently, it has even disturbed my sleep.
When you watch a documentary concerning deep-seated trauma,
Where someone was beaten, kicked, and left in the corner,
You see it haunt and stalk them as they are older,
Whereby it’s too late to cry on a shoulder.
It’s society’s fault, and I’m not saying it isn’t,
For the survivors life won’t be what was envisioned.
Although grief and fear must still be overcome,
Yet, only through a personal journey will it be done.
On a much lesser scale I too must make peace,
For the rhythms of life do never cease.
So, therefore, my poetry is just a vehicle to sanity,
And every so often an excuse for my vanity.
Logging off with gusto,
Quickly, so my boss won’t know;
Shuffling down a concrete staircase,
Moving as if I’m giving chase.
She said meet her in the car park,
If I can even see her in the dark.
She’d know to flash the lights
when she has me in her sights.
No big plans for tonight,
so we might order in a bite.
We’ll settle on Indian over Chinese,
with chunks of sag aloo she’ll tease.
Big walk planned for Saturday,
Not sure if she’ll decide to come or stay.
Want to be back in time for the big game,
Tackles to fly and not too tame.
Sunday, I’m in love,
I’ll be praying to her instead of the Lord above.
Clean up and then some chores,
Our flushed, naked bodies and the filthy floors.
Will soak up the last morsels before dusk,
Monday morning I’ll be back to a husk.
With a head like a vortex,
And with a swollen stomach knotted.
Skin drawn tight like a Durex,
I’m all ready to be slotted.
“Sunday Blues” cascade
And drown me all evening.
Even though I’m afraid,
by 8:15 I’ll be leaving.
There are jobs to do here,
My consciousness screams inside.
I reason, “but have no fear,
This work we can, too, abide.”
In truth, I don’t know
If this anxiety will ever stop.
For the present will never show
Which future feelings we can drop.
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.
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.
It’s nearly 3am and I’m still wide awake.
This blasted tea keeps arriving before my mouth,
and I’m not sorry about that.
It tastes delightful, probably because it should be forbidden.
This time of the, erm, morning – what would the boss say.
Well, I don’t care, he’s not my guv’nor.
Only when I’m sat on my ass pretending to look busy.
He won’t notice anything tomorrow (today) anyway;
he’s taken another week off – skiing in the Italian Alps.
Isn’t he worried about the virus? Why would he be? He hasn’t been when Janice was sick with it.
People like him have always got a plan or a way out.
Perks of being management I guess – ‘rules for thee, not for me’.
He’d be having a tea right now.
Bollocks, he’ll be having three. Three big ‘uns in the Sports Direct mugs.
Needs it after all the Bollinger he bloody got through at Christmas.
I’m not really in the mood for penning any poetic verse tonight. It’s been a long start to the week after an excellent. Thank goodness that it’s hump day, and all that. I need to get through this week though. I’m going to sink into the weekend like I’m jumping into a bean bag chair.
It’s difficult getting back in the saddle. I’ve tried to ignore things like the news and social media. But, the thing is, once you’re slumped at your desk trying to get through bullshit jobs and you get home and you’re body is exhausted, it feels like there is nothing else left. Without sounding like Leibniz or Voltaire‘s Dr. Pangloss, social media is the best of all possible worlds, and those worlds all revolve around: destroy the will of the human being to want anything than to simply watch and listen, and destory their capacity to resist this urge and do anything more meaningful. As we speak, I’m laid out on my bed having spent the evening drinking beer and watching the same, shit film series, which every three years churns out a new, shit film.
There are times when it feels like escape from this life-construct is impossible. Right now, it’s one of those times. I’ll try and rattle through my books, as reading offers an escape, although that’s not easy. It feels like I’m merely scratching at the smooth white walls of a bathtub, and I’m the ugly spider at the bottom of it: I’m offering some resistance, but it’s futile and makes me feel “unnecessarily” tired.
Just two more days of this week. I need that weekend.
Rolling back the duvet,
crushed cotton connects
with block colours on linen,
my whole body objects.
Naked and pink,
I sit upright, still drowsy.
“one day at a time”;
her best efforts to rouse me.
I sullenly drag
this corpse that I live in,
off of it’s sanctuary
and into work rhythmn.
Gulping down waves of coffee,
but I know it’s no use.
The body is unwilling,
my soul, inside, hangs loose.
An incessant stream
of competition sees us carried.
There is no way out.
Their greed can’t be parried.
The Disinterested Philosopher Gets By 