Pre-Post Poorly Produces Pre-Prepared Poems.

Well, it’s happened.  I knew it would, and it has, so at least I’m proven to be generally excellent once again.  Still irritating though.  What’s happened, I hear you all ask quietly, and all at different times so it sounds like a chorus of inquisitive spirits?  I’ve fallen ill just before a gig.  Scratchy of throat, low on energy and, I’m fairly certain, soon to be producing delightful mucus based leakage.  This is vastly upsetting and will take up all of my time, between now and Saturday night, with constant worry and doubt.  So not entirely unusual, but still.  
Combine this with the last practice before said gig being this evening and a week of much busy-ness at work and you get a recipe for no time/inclination to produce a scintillating blog post for your loyal, almost entirely mute fan base. Day five though, isn’t it, so I can’t just bail.  I won’t just bail.  Instead, I’ll cheat by doing what I said was inevitable and posting some of my poems.
I’m not thrilled about this, partly because it means I’ve effectively had to half-arse a post (though, in my experience, half an arse is better than none) and partly because I’d just decided to do my poems as spoken word Youtube videos, with a little single frame cartoon to look at while you listen. I mean, I’ll totally still do that, it’s just that you’ll already have read these ones and will subsequently realise just how incorrectly you’d delivered them to yourself in your head. Cretin. Regardless, it’s happening. You’re getting two poems today and that’s your lot. Here it is, happening right now:
Poem #1 – That’s My Girl
This is one of my soppiest bits, all heart and honest emotion, and possibly one of my best for it. Alternatively, you may find it makes you want to vomit, but you can’t please everyone.
Nobody told me that they’d pass you to me first
and all I could think was: heavier than expected
although you weren’t.
“Don’t drop her”, someone expected to joke.
I added it to my mental list.
Nobody told me that I wouldn’t get it for a while,
that some people just don’t get much from only the smile
and the crying.
But in time that changed, priorities rearranged.
Lack of sleep and sex became less strange,
and the crying.
Now, sometimes you look at things, speculate and wonder
and I’m under your spell.
So I tell you why, or why I think
I think.
Pause. Process. Cause, effect and digest.
You respond.
“That’s stupid”
That’s my girl.
That’s the world.
Nobody told me.
Nobody told me that they’d pass you to me first
and all I could think was: heavier than expected and
Don’t mock her, don’t damage or stop her from…
Don’t hide, reject, over expect, accept that at times
you just can’t protect her.
Don’t hold her too high or barter her down,
don’t always be guardian, mostly be clown.
Never make promises you simply can’t keep,
let her see you fail, be frail, manly and weep.
And don’t drop her.
I won’t ever drop you.
“Don’t say that, it’s stupid!”
That’s my girl.
Poem #2 – Cupid’s Shallow
This is a bit more ‘fun’. Although, I am soul crushingly lonely so, I guess don’t forget that there’s desperate message in amongst that word play. Plus, any creative endeavour in which I get to mention my junk is bound to be worth a look (Though not necessarily true of my junk).
I just want to find love, is that asking too much?
Just some earthly vision that I get to touch
with fingers, with moments, with words and with looks,
with enough contrived, fawning poetry to fill several books.
To talk to as one day dissolves through the next,
to argue with constantly, at work, via text.
To nurture and smother,
to weed and to prune.
To fill me with music and then try change my tune.
Just someone who gets it, or someone who tries to,
whose truth makes me want her as much as her lies do
and when we’re together is as we’re apart,
cos 24/7’s just too bloody hard.
We’ll rest in the sunshine and dance in the stars,
fur up our arteries and stifle our hearts,
develop strange habits that drive us both barking,
believe that each other aren’t secretly marking every assignment
we didn’t know we’d turned in.
Keeping things light when prognosis is grim.
I just want to find ‘Her’ but not like Joaquin Phoenix,
all talking and learning – I’m too aware of my penis.
Still, somebody not deeply lacking in depth
who can occasionally join me inside my sick head,
who could bring brand new baggage full of stuff I’ve not worn,
who could rock the boat just-so to counter the storm
but who doesn’t always know better, or bet on just what she knows
and who – not a call back to down there – encourages growth.
Of course, I’m aware that I’m asking a lot,
and of course there are some points I’m willing to drop.
The one thing that’s stone-set and seems most expected:
It should be someone all of you want to have sex with.
Thoughts welcome, naturally, just be aware that I’m groggy and puffy and liable to disagree with you.  Unless you love them and then I’ll know you’ve got problems far beyond being a bit run down.  Right, honey and lemon and bed.

Post a Comment