I might be a slave to capitalism
That’s what I’ve decided
These wild hours sat with a screen
And then evenings spent pumping out words
Like some verbose, defecating machine
Weekends working that hamster wheel again
The money is addicting
And the silence of not doing
Is deafening
So I’ll do and continue to do
To fill the quiet air with pennies and pounds
And stop it inflating with the cold tickle of worry
Bumbling, sore, back is bruised from the inside
Chest is tight, feet feel swollen
Convinced I’m dying in some way
(I guess we all are, in the end)
Poised to deliver, biting off more than my mouth and fingers can handle
Capitalist slave, I didn’t realise rest is rebellion.
Tag: Adult life
When I am home
I am looking forward to the smoky back-garden haze,
And fog drifting over the horizon in winter.
Home is where I used to hang out of my window on the bluest of moon nights
And shuffle with Chuck Berry and Johnny Cash.
Winter is always the ripest, best, most elegant time of year
Because the ferns all sing sweetly in the breeze
And the rustle of a middle-class life echoes through the town.
Mornings are clad in grey clouds, making Gilmore Girls re-runs oh so inviting,
Sunlight peaks through, emerging from the sky’s womb,
At around 2 o’clock.
This is home to me. I’ve been away for 3 years
And now I’m desperate to find that shelter again.
Hotel buffet blues
At the start of every day
I say
I’m going to be a vegetarian.
But then one sweaty Sunday
A hotel buffet calls,
Rows of striped bacon, fluffy eggs
And spongey sausages which flutter
Down my gullet…
I saunter up for a third helping
Delights piled high on the plate,
A leaning tower of meaty Pisa.
Let’s stuff ourselves to the brim
More so now than we’ve ever done
Because it’s free of course,
Gotta get that dollar’s worth
Even though the bacon fat
Will choke our hearts.
Thirteen glasses of orange juice
And a bucket of coffee later
I’m nauseatingly full.
With a ketchup-stained mouth
And greasy fingers
I swear not to do it again
Hotel buffets are a blessing and a curse
For those with never-ending stomachs.
The day I got pummelled by a wave
The waves crash around my ankles in a desperate display of purple fury
Each and every one poised for a destructive landing
A very violet sandstorm.
Wading in to be whipped, my body tenses
Feet tapping and drifting away from the ocean’s disgruntled bed
One of them finds me, sizes me up, and then punches my body with its crackling foam
Knocked onto the sand, bikini bursts and breasts fall open
I bounce from grain to grain, submerged and breathless, au bout de souffle,
Steadying myself, my feet fight with the monstrous current
Metres from the shore feels like miles.
Boob readjusted, wedgie loosened, the sea retreats and oxygen invades
I stumble out of the deathly surf like a drunken banshee woman
Withering like a rose, wobbling like jelly.
Happy birthday Mum.
I don’t need a car, a job, a husband, a dog
I just need my mum, she says.
24 and staring at the floor
Kicking my feet like a wannabe Dorothy
Kansas why’d ya leave me sore?
24 and needing a cuddle
Brain is just a jumbo muddle
Curse you, Mum, for being the best
Just look at the monstrous bar you set!
Gimme shelter, said the Stones
Well I agree, I need my home
Nothing bad ever happens there
The kids all dance without a care.
Mum, please carry me in your pocket
Whisk me off to Marks and Sparks
Spend those pennies, park the car
See pensioners fight over frilly bras
Chicken breasts and caviar.
24 and kicking my feet,
You’ll never be rid
Of this big-ass baby.
talking to my pillow. 