First floor loo

When I need a break from my screen,
I don't go outside or to the vending machine.
Instead I head for the first floor loo
for a whimsical wee or a ponderous poo.

Sometimes I don't even need to go
but the cubicle leads to the safest haven;
a heavenly hideout for 10 minutes or so,
a chance to reflect as time ticks by.

Relief is a gift so I don't know why
comfort is so unappreciated.
Our bottom halves are ripe for laughs
but not when constantly constipated.

The spreadsheet asks me where I've been,
as toilet is not on the dropdown menu.
So it's time to flush my thoughts for now;
my body may be soggy but my mind is clean.

Deleting happiness

Like a switch unintentionally flicked,
the clock of confusion quickly kicked in.
The blank screen of death widened worldwide,
the locking of log-ins and passwords denied.

Bars were closed leaving revellers trapped,
tourists halted by unmapped directions.
Every sporting event was called off.
Mirrors had enough, they cracked our reflections.

No rainbows allowed as all colours faded,
The sea was swallowed by thick smog and rust.
With nature endangered machines were upgraded,
removing our reason, destroying our trust.

Education was axed after teachers escaped
from their classrooms with whiteboards wiped out.
Questions unanswered as barrels were scraped
by stranded scientists; their research in doubt.

Birthdays were banned by a calendar killer,
which burned every date in the calendar year.
Buildings collapsed, no room for their pillar,
triggering potholes with road signs unclear.

Sunset was pale as darkness prevailed,
the only hope now is the cycle takes stock.
The reboot of daytime may reset the clock
and assure everyone the deletion had failed.

Talking head

If you are a talking head on a music show,
do it in a northern accent.
It sounds more authentic that way.

The doom, the bleakness of youth,
the gloom, the weakness, facing the truth.
£1 a year to spend on a record,
the joy and pain of Transmission
by Joy Division, striking a chord.

In the dusty collection some 70s funk,
punk, post-punk, Daft Punk.
On vinyl the final album by Pulp.

If you are a talking head on a transport show,
do it in a Cockney accent.
It sounds egocentric that way.

The moans, the state of each station,
the groans, the wait for compensation.
Everyone's barging, the scowls, the glare,
look over there, it's a cheeky hoodie
up to no good; he dodged the fare.

Tickets from last year in a bogus city,
tourists took pity and unwittingly sealed
a fraudulent deal, both cunning and shitty.

If you are a talking head on a football show,
do it in a monotone accent.
It sounds suitably thick that way.

I just hit it, you know, and it's gone in.
Last minute, I know, cos we went for the win.
The fans gave me stick and the lads did too.
There was banter, you know, from my old team.
I'm top of the world, it's a dream come true.

That performance out there was top-drawer,
We gave 110 per cent, you know.
At the end of the day, it was three points today,
and it's all about the final score.

If you are a talking head on your own show,
do it in a mongrel accent.
It sounds enigmatic that way.

Confusion all round, is he or isn't he?
A fusion of sound, a voice filled with mystery.
Posh, dosh, oh my gosh, where was he born?
The freak, the mystique, who is he meant to be?
No clues, no news, no lines have been drawn.

People over here may think that you're queer
but the Hugh Grant persona won't leave you a loner.
The overseasers love crowd pleasers; you'll see.
I should know, I had a go. It worked well enough for me.

What a waste

I walked a dog in Barking, stroked a kitten in Catford,

crept through the dark Olympic park in Stratford.

I met Mary in Maryland for a march in mid-March.

Leighton from Leyton joined at Marble Arch.

Feeling old on a cold day I listened to Coldplay,

while dreaming of summer, Donna Summer, Haddaway.

In-yer-face Ace of Base, the pounding of relentless feet

dancing to that Cookie song and Mr Vain by Culture Beat.

I googled google on Google as boredom struck.

No luck on Wikipedia so on to social media, stalking

friends, sorting features, emails from female teachers

advising me to mute; let writing do the talking.

On a commute and on my computer I noticed my tutor.

He greeted me warmly but then looked perplexed.

A glance at the screen, he was somewhat mean,

demanding understanding of content and context.

What is this? An absurd waste of the written word.

Just bin it, this half-a-minute will never return.

You won't earn by insulting structure and stanza

so please learn from this tight-fit bullshit extravaganza.

You need either a good intro or outro, preferably both.

This has neither.

Errant mug

I need you with me, I wake up with you.
My morning sanity, my cup of tea.
In the winter freeze, you absorb my sneeze
keep me warm at sub-zero degrees.
I'll slurp you to your enticing base,
then burp inside your gasping face.

You may think I desert you,
leave you rotting, moulding by the sink.
But when my scalding massage follows
to erase your stink and allows
the joy of simmering swallows,
the stream of steam won't hurt you.

I might strangle your handle at an obscure
angle but it's always a cure, I'm sure.
Even when I slam you on my desk,
your picturesque shape soothes my stress.
At the next kitchen stop I'll prop you up,
top you up then mop up any needless mess.

I've tried to hide my rage as I hunt
to confront you in drawers and cupboards.
But upwards it soars as I creep on all-fours
to sniff out your heavily tea-stained scar.
I'm tear-stained not knowing where you are.
I crave your glug, I demand that hug,
for I miss you so, my errant mug.

Home

Widely unpublished

Gate 22

I arrived at the airport, was first in the queue,

for baggage, then security, I made my way through

to the world of departures, hand luggage times two,
no business merely pleasure on a trip to Peru.

Some toddlers were screaming desperate for the loo,
with others streaming games just for something to do.
Stag-dos, hen-dos on the way to Corfu,
but their flight was delayed so still time for a few.
I headed to a cafe for a much-needed brew,
and after led my path to dodge the hullabaloo.
It was then I scratched my head as confusion grew,
down a spooky spiral staircase, it was freezing cold too.
I tiptoed around, blank signs hanging askew,
a triumphant guard appeared out of the blue.

We're not impressed by people like you, who
check-in online so time is no big issue.
You fill in a crossword, every cryptic clue,
then sip a glass of wine and eat tiramisu.
A laptop in hand you scour every review
of luxury hotels that have a room with a view.
Let's ruin your clockwork, it's time to eschew
the borderline boredom you bring to our crew.
We like panic, we love manic and let chaos ensue,
like passports expiring, no time to renew.
We're sick of the sight of your tickety-boo
smugness on your flight so we're turning the screw.
Congratulations matey, it's now time that you knew
you are this week's champion, our gate 22.