Nice title, shame about the poem

Handwritten on a tea-stained page,
nothing worked at any stage.

Every angle was explored,
from wacky to tacky, rant to raised eyebrow,

ponderous, with a senseless stream of consciousness.

A series of haikus left me suppressed
so I tried modern free verse instead. here

Let's place a random word over

with

peculiar

gaps

to make it unclear.

That just made it worse,

even though I liked it at first

as some would take it seriously;

but pretentious bollocks is not for me.
If I had a studio this would be torn
to shreds and scattered on the cutting room floor.

But I don't so it won't be.

You turn me on when you turn me down

I don't need magazines or online porn,
just a photo of you with an awkward smile.
My bedroom door will be locked for a while
as I fantasise about your rejection.

You shake your head and it gives me the horn,
the way you sigh in sweet sympathy.
But I'm a sucker for your negativity;
that frown, those eyes are pixel perfection.

I'm on the border of a restriction order
as I spot your joy with someone new.
He responds with a defiant finger;
hang on, he looks just like me!

So in your mind I will always linger,
trapped but relaxed inside you.
He'll be crying when you turn him down;
it's a triumphant moral victory.

Image: Carly Rozman

Magic Monday

The receptionist is an exhibitionist,
strutting herself along her desk,
with a picturesque peacock dress
as entry cards buzz and staff pour in.

Loopy lifts bounce from level to level,
the stairs are a backwards escalator.
A thousand cokes and coffees later,
there's breakdancing on the kitchen floor.

Laptops crash in spectacular fashion,
with a firework feast for the powers-that-be,
who wave their waistcoats in ecstasy,
as slideshows explode with fun-fuelled passion.

The funky fire alarm relentlessly bleeps
with rave-like beats that crave vertigo.
But no-one leaves and no-one sleeps;
why should they? It's snoozeday tomorrow.

Insects

Wherever I go, insects follow,
slurping on my vulnerable skin.
It's a punishing swell, I'm itching like hell,
with bruises blossoming and ballooning within.

Wherever I go, insects swallow
my succulent blood with no conscience or fear.
Whether up here or somewhere down there,
picturesque patterns and rashes appear.

Wherever I go, insects bring sorrow,
mocking my lack of fight at great length.
The tiniest bite gives my body a fright,
sapping whatever remains of my strength.

But all will turn on its head tomorrow
when I stagger to buy antihistamine cream.
Watch out you bastards, I'm going to get plastered
and poison your evil and venomous scheme.

Home

Hindsight is a joyless thing

Hindsight is life's lowlight,

a joyless world of what-ifs, if-onlys and whys.

You could have done this, you should have done that,

it always seems a good idea at the time.

Even if it's not a crime,

hindsight hinders and gives birth to regret,

citing malignant memories you'd rather forget,

and puncturing even the thickest of skin.

With a patronising, gleeful grin,

hindsight is the concept of I told you so.

Tossing instinct out of sympathy's window,

inflicting confession and sadness too.

But what can we do to combat

this impenetrable enemy of common sense. 

We're hapless, hopeless and helpless

because hindsight is not in the future tense.