Depression in the Key of Disappointment

It feels like walking out of the house

with trousers but no pants.

No one else can see your bare ass

but to you it’s a flaring babboon’s.

What am I going to do?

Another opportunity rejected, cursed, finito,

trampled over like a forgotten cigarette butt.

‘Pick yourself up!’

‘Life goes on!’

‘When one door closes, another opens!’

But remember, as with the metaphor above,

you have to take your trousers off

to put on a pair of pants.

Fighting a Squirrel

i think i would cry

if i fought a small squirrel.

it’s not a fair fight.

 

even if it were a big one

it would be a pathetic

sight to see the furry thing

in boxing gloves, shorts and

a bizarre mouthguard in its mouth.

i would forfeit, throw in the towel.

 

the squirrel might go on to

win a world title.

i would be ok to fight the squirrel

at that stage.

Thinking on Religion

I am not religious.

Well, actually, I believe

in something like God.

Or, oh, I don’t known,

am I religious?

 

I believe in something

a bit like an invisible

climbing frame that

I can climb around

without fear of falling.

But I don’t like the thought

of being pushed off.

waking up on the wrong side of bed

this morning i woke up

on the wrong side of bed.

i felt angry and fed up

as if a pillow-case covered my head.

the sun shone bright, but my

mood was anything but chirpy –

it was more like a kite

on a day with no wind, dirty,

lying in the mud when

everything else was gleaming.

i close my eyes and count to ten

but still my brain is steaming

and thinking of who to shout at,

who to ignore and who to fight.

the answer’s all the same twat

who i hate with all my might.

it’s that bloke who thinks he’s a winner,

that grumpy shit in the mirror.

 

Modern Man: Part 4

Modern man punched

himself in the face

to see if he could feel

anything other than guilt.

 

Modern man cut off

his legs with a razor

in little slashing movements

and still couldn’t feel.

 

All he could think

was of how he could

make a machine that

turned on the television,

as he couldn’t walk anymore.

 

The (Momentary) Conversion of St Phil

Taking the first drag

of the morning cigarette,

Phil was walking along

Piccadilly Road on a Monday morning.

 

Traffic was piled up

all down the street,

bumper to bumper

so Phil walked faster

than the cars by his side.

 

All at once,

it happened.

A flash of light,

a cigarette butt flicked

from the window

of a car, hitting

Phil direct

in the eye,

the blackest pupil.

 

‘I’m fucking blind!’

Phil screamed, eye

burning and popping

like a scrambled egg.

 

He rubbed his eyes

hard with his fingers.

‘I’ll never smoke agai…’

he blinked.

His eye was fine.

Light and life

poured in.

 

‘Jesus,’ he said,

‘I need a cigarette.’

 

How to Fry a Brain

Take brain,

split into two,

then cut into similar

1 inch cubes.

Get a pan nice

and steaming hot

with 2 tablespoons of

Olive Oil and add:

2 cloves garlic

(chopped finely),

2 shallots

(chopped finely). Fry

until coloured.

Add brain

cook for 5 minutes

for rare,

cook for 7 minutes

for medium,

cook for 9 minutes

for well done.

Season to taste

and garnish with

fresh Rosemary.

 

Morning Kitchen

Bacon spitting

in the pan,

the ketchup ready.

I’m neither drunk

nor hungover.

Surprising, really.

 

If I bend down

and squint,

the tabletop

is like a

fantastic landscape,

a city,

where custard

creams are the

 

Pyramids of dreams.

 

Writing and Woody Allen

writing is a bit like

masturbation; perfectly

acceptable when done

in private, but a

bit embarrassing in public.

what can you do?

If you’ve got it,

flaunt it.

 

like woody allen says,

it’s sex with

someone i love.

 

you be you and i’ll be me

you be you

and i’ll be me

and we can sit

and look

at each other

with all the windows

open.

and the sunlight

on our foreheads

as if we’re the only ones

who understand each other.