Poetry - March 2004

Sleepless Nights

It's gone half past twelve at night
It's dark outside and I have work in the morning
Yet part of me really doesn't feel tired
I really can't describe the feeling I have
I toss and turn in bed not getting comfortable
And I just can't seem to drop to sleep
Maybe I'm worried about something happening
Also, maybe I'm thinking too much
And wondering what might happen in the future
But I know that as much as I want to now
I just cannot seem to stay asleep for too long
Leaving me tired and emotional for the day.

(There are times you just can't sleep, isn't there?)

Friday Evening Dinner For One Rush

It's around five in the afternoon and the rush is on
A mass of single people around Marks and Spencer's
With their meals that they can throw in the microwave
Convenient for those that just live alone
In their nice city centre flat and city centre life
Yet M and S seems to be a magnet for singles
As the weary work week draws to a close
It's time to treat themselves to a new exciting exotic meal
As they head for their flats and kick off their shoes
They chill out and enjoy their meals alone
Yet in the back of the mind they want a meal for two
So that this Friday night feeling isn't just for them.

(Inspired by a colleague where I work who told me that apparently Marks and Spencer's is the place to pull on a Friday evening if you're single with everyone buying meals to treat themselves and not be so alone.)

Addicted To Facelifts

The lights are on
And you're at home
Your mind is not your own
Your heart beats
With silicone
As you just wish for more suction
You can't eat
you can't sleep
The doctor says the op won't keep
As you go under the knife
And head into some scalpel strife
You're just another fashion victim
Looking for year shifts, oh yeah
You don't know what's good for you
Your body was good enough
You're gonna have to face it
You're addicted to facelifts.

(When watching Footballer's Wives, note how that annoying Shannon woman is getting addicted to cosmetic surgery. She's not alone, maybe, and hence my little protest piece. Ultimate irony was that the words actually fit to the late Robert Palmer's über-classic song.)

Paparazzi

Do you believe it? You'd better!
I've got the gossip
Pop star goes out with some total tart
They go for dinner
And they have cucumber
I'm going to the papers
And I'm going to sell..
The story is hot
And that's what I've got
I'm watching my back
I'm awaiting my visitation
From the men at Fleet Street
I'm going to see
If they realise my quotation.

(The small tale of one little would-be paparazzi, how they all start getting the gossip from any famous people meeting and making up their own bull stories)

Back To Reality

Yawn I say aloud
Another pile of bobbins
Hogging our TV.

(Say no more. A haiku is all it takes to describe my despair.)