Tag Archives: Writers

Fucking Miserable

You know what I’ve realised?
We’re all miserable.
Cathy, three doors down with the spotty cheeks
And loud, obnoxious children –
Miserable.
And Beth, covering herself up while walking home
From another late night class
Gripping the wine bottle like an inhaler –
Miserable.
Nicholas, the guy with the fruit chin and
Cauliflower ears who smells like soup on a good day –
Miserable.
And Mike, who spits out poetry like its God’s gift
To the unpublished kingdom –
Miserable.
But he owns it.
We all do.
In between fucking
And writing it down in blogs and vlogs and Facebook posts
Twisted up in cocktail pictures on Instagram
And faceless ponies on our quick fix Snapchat
We are all fucking miserable.
Why?
Because we were told we could achieve anything.
So when we get to anywhere and we realise it isn’t anything,
We consider the things that may have led us some place
More productive,
More successful,
More desirable.
Because no one likes a man
In sweatpants, eating cornflakes
On a second hand loveseat,
Watching re-runs of Golden Girls
On a Tuesday afternoon

Except maybe…
Me
Because baby,
I’m there too.

 

Lamenting Failure of Occupation Is Rife With Pointless Self Pity, But Please, Humour Me

Being a writer
Is sixty percent rejection
Two percent success
Thirty percent self hatred
And eight percent is stuck
In some bottle
Or in a take away cup
With lukewarm coffee
Chain smoking it’s way
Towards an early
Death
Where you are too many
Naked bones
To find out
Someone
Somewhere
Is just starting
To give a shit about you

At the Manor, By the Fire

There was you and me
And there was a fireplace
Unlit, unscathed
In a house found by us lonely lovers
In need of wasteful memories
To absorb
An empty manor
Long disposed of
Caused our romantic hearts
To camp there on wooden boards
Next to dusty, vapid photographs
With which we didn’t dare
Touch or tamper

You gave me words
As we knelt down
Slid across the old oak table
By well versed hands
Written on paper you found
In a wastepaper basket
By the mysteriously ajar
Front door
The words crept across cream fibres
With gangly lettering
Like your limbs
And transient, clever language
Like your tongue
Words I mightn’t have thought of
That you gave me
Like a gift
I was supposed to use them
To entertain you

I took my own weathered
Old type faced page
Torn from a Spanish novel
I had lifted out of dusty Library shelves
Downstairs
And wrote you a poem
An ode
With these words you bequeathed
And my selfish hand
Exploiting my bothersome addiction
To your attentions
In order to woo you

I use your word ‘Symphony’
As I express shared whispers
I use your word ‘Ravishment’
When I say in little loopy words
Just what happens in the wee hours
I use your word ‘Enervation’
When I imagine having to
Utilise sight and sound
Without the promise of you in it

But it is not enough
I screw up the Spanish words
Into a ball
With my own ridiculous excuse
For poetry
In an instant ‘Innocuous’ is used
Inside my own head
To describe myself
I ignite my page in front of you
With a silver lighter
The paper flushes hurriedly
With dry crackles
And as I throw it upon
The once dead fire
It lights
Giving way to white and bright
In a place that had been dark
For so long
You stare at me
With that look
And take me
By the now raging fireplace
Thinking my embarrassment
Of not being good enough
Was actually an intentional display
Of bravery and courtship
For you