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100 mile per hour headwinds hurtling straight at me
200 degree heated stress levels eating away at me 300 thoughts zinging around my head, enveloping me 400 pound obligations, albatrossing weighty around me 500 sharp realities, hitting my sides, nastily effecting me It was not easy to stop. It’s never easy to stop. Missed connections, deadlines looming, Job insecurity blooming, commitments straining, Relationships paining, vital aspects forgot, Last minute remembered, shock, All it took was a moment, All it took was a pause, It was not easy to stop. It’s never easy to stop. It’s hard to see the brakes, The brakes to aid the stop. I took a pause, I took a break, I went away with family, Cornwall, a pleasant place, For my mind to get away, It’s not easy to stop. The mind it whirls, Takes me off on random circles When I’m drifting off to bed, Thoughts of work move round my head, All I want is to be free, From this wretched peasantry. I paused. Took a breath. Reminded myself of all I left, In my mind when I was stressing, All the good things that give joy, All the jokes, all the thoughts, All the lines I’d written, all the memories, As I sat in a Cornish cottage, Listening, as my uncles argued, Smiling, as my aunts placated, Drinking, as my family challenged, Thinking, as they give me hope. All it took was a pause, And we all resume, Busy lives, Travelling lives, Transported lives, But remember and reflect, On all the good things in the pause.
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(Partly featured in 'In the Millennial Dome')
I answer politely, I passively shrug, I explain, I concede, I nod, I judge, I sympathise and tilt, My head to the side, Wasn’t my first choice; Surprise, surprise, So, when responding, To the question ‘What do you do?’ I think. When all is done, When the bells have rung. When the sermon’s delivered. What have I done. What do I do? I wake up, i go to bed, I occasionally shave, I think I'm well read, I try to grow a beard, I do my best not to act weird, I write down my thoughts, In the structure of a work progress report, I click send on emails, I go through all the details, I update various mediums of communications, I listen to the news to find out what’s happening in the nation, I pick and choose my extra curricular activities, In hope, one day they’ll be curricular, for me, I dream, I love, I want too much, I cry, i make jokes, But if i spoke All that to you, Me, just some bloke, It would be intense and weird, So forget I ever spoke. (Originally performed for Smithdown Road Festival on 29/04/2017)
Garmoyle Street’s put on a house party. Ferndale’s getting smashed, Blantyre is getting tired and don’t know how long they’ll last Brookdale’s got eyes for Avondale But Avondale’s got eyes for one thing - late night fried chicken run, But the party’s just begun, Arundel’s arrived all dressed up, Thinking this tweed jacket, and Cocaine habit, will give them luck. Kenmare’s still at Kelly’s, with a pint of manchester pale, Comparatively, who turned up first, why it’s only borrowdale. As the party takes its course, A shadowy figure approaches...who is it? Why it’s Frank Sinatra of course. coffee from naked lunch in one hand, Evil eye burrito in the other, All his clothes are second hand, Roy castle foundation clobber, And he pulls it off, all cool and hip, He’s been dancing with the dolls house djs for days, And sampling the fine taste, of all the takeaways, He nods to lidderdale, who instantly faints, He’s a regular savour, the Greenbank saint, He listens to thornycroft, harp on about the letting boards, How they’ve won against the student letting agencies, finally not ignored, But as the party climax’s, peaks and gets over the hump, It feels already like the clean up has begun. They’re all going home, in ones and twos, To wake up tomorrow, around about two. The other residents have already logged a formal complaint, The only one left is Sinatra the greenbank saint, Somehow surviving, somehow keeping on, It could be all the drugs, but there’s something much more strong, It's that desperation, that need to cling on, That feeling that endings are sad, not wanting to move on. But as the whole thing winds down, The lights begin to rise, Frank’s keen to do it all again, When the new day and new lot arrives. |
poetry.All poetry is written by Alex Ferguson.
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