Shouting at the bank

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Image by Daniel Nebreda from Pixabay

SHOUTING AT THE BANK

In another edge
In between the privileged and the lack
In the constant turmoil
Of despair and doubt
I have found myself
Wandering homeless
And begging for food
And having to deal with unsavoury people;
And then when I get some money
Do I spend it on food?
Or a place to stay for the night
And then somehow
I find myself shouting at the bank
And slamming the phone down
When will the nightmare end?
Time and fortune
Keep telling me to move on,
And don’t tell me it’s easy.
What is easy anyway?
Maybe something frozen…
So there I was,
Shouting at the bank
Like some crazy
Passing easy in the dark
And I thought,
What am I doing?
Shouting at an Indian man
In some call centre in India?
Like I said
It’s another edge
In between of it all

ABRACADABRA MACHINE

14 dogs in a Jerry can pie
Come home to roost
Hung out to dry
Where the marble baby
Sleeps in the word’s edge
To eat our tea in the rain
Closing down hungry borders
Where the snatches of prayer
Dig deep in the pits
Jab, jab, jaw,
It’s off to work with you
And never say die,
And pick up
The broken pieces of your life,
And get a shave,
And don’t hang out
On any more street corners
Where the hardcore
With their very breaths
Go to glue them together.
We do not eat this well,
And why are we being shown it?
And now we will all sing hallelujah together
As the ship sinks
To go to our new glorious beginnings,
Amen.
Ok boys,
Time to lean the other way now,
And crank up that abracadabra machine,
The one with the rubber legs,
And we’re ever so grateful
For the opportunity
To be an opportunity here
Slinking down the back alleys
To where the graveyard meets
The next train going nowhere
Now where did I hide all my buckets of money?

ANOTHER ANGEL FEATHER BITES THE DUST

If we go any slower
We’ll be going backwards
Telling Christmas jokes to the fairies;
So just to be straight here
I’m sitting in a Polish café
That is selling Irish breakfasts
To the Greeks in a Muslim neighbourhood
In a road in Bangkok,
And where I’m from
Is another place altogether.
There’s no sense to it
And anyone with any sense knows that.
There are too many people
For one way to be true
So anyway is as good as any
If it gets you there,
And which tribe do you belong to?
And how much face will you lose
If you change your mind
And how much more can you eat
Of any of it before
You know you’ve had enough?
And how big is your pond?
And how many brownie points have you saved?
And where do you dare?
And how do you tell the time?
And do you believe all your beliefs?
And if this rocks any more
It will fall off the shelf and win the bear.

BLASHOOM THE SILVERY FOX

Importing old grannies for tea
Is one thousand times more potent
Than an electric upstart grinding his teeth
And even though my thoughts
Keep me notified of my progress
It all just keeps coming down to this:
If only we had a bus service
In the little shed of dancing;
And I think I need a haircut;
And then, out of the winds
Came this adverbish pronoun,
But it went away again before I could see it.
And then we went to the number 44 shop
For a huge big juice, cheap-cheap,
In between the rain of the twilight
Where a thousand dollars makes a sure bet thing
In the gravy spring dinner;
Oh the blash-tight bloomers.
Anyway, don’t mistake dignity for superiority
Because there are many layers of brilliance
But only one common sense;
And now let us investigate the properties
Of a very large plate of chips,
Or French fries to the Americans
They were damn good: burp.

OMG, IT’S A GHOST

A ghost in slow motion
With an urge in all primacy
Woke up and began the day
By falling out of bed
And then falling down the stairs,
So there was a lot of bumping going on.
The ghost was a bit woozy by then
And bumped into a few doors
On its way to the kitchen
Where coffee was brewing,
So the ghost helped itself to a cup.
The birdies were singing,
The sun was shining
And the owners of the house
Were getting ready to go to work
And so didn’t notice anything
Because they were so busy.
The wife took the kids to school,
The husband went to work
And the ghost was alone
In the quiet house with coffee
Outside, some happy campers wandered by
On their way home from their camping;
The ghost finished its coffee
And went back to bed

TIME

Time is what it is really
Even when you’re tired and crying
Or on a long walk to nowhere at all,
It is still time.
It moves when you have nothing to eat
And no place to stay,
Time doesn’t stop still,
Even if you do;
And in time is effort made,
The effort to carry on or give up;
To carry on means you have the responsibility
Of all you carry on with;
To give up means
You lay your tired self down
In the dust and forget it all,
And once past a certain point
There is no return.
There are ones who have gone there
And you hear about them now and again,
How they did it
And all the fuss afterwards
For a while,
Then their memory fades.
But the sound of the ones who carry on
Is still heard,
Even when it is only their breathing.
Time will take it all away one day
And the laughter will only be heard
In the ghostly winds,
But until then,
Time is what it is really,
Life unfolding in all its forms

Image from Pixabay