Generic post-breakup analysis (hers)

I love your mem’ry more
Than what you were to me in life.
Though I still daydream daily
Of my role then as your wife.
I tried to do my duty
Did the best job that I could.
I think we just weren’t meant to last
Our match was not too good.
I, far too jealous would become
Without you by my side,
And you would feel quite suffocated
By my endless pride.
We’d rub each other constantly
‘Til fur would start to fly,
Then I would comfort you in shame
Each time you’d start to cry.
We never solved our problems
And yet argued without end.
I loved you as a mother
You preferred me as a friend.
So everything imploded
As things came to quite a head.
I never got to blow my top –
My reason turned you red.
We parted with great sorrow,
But, with also great relief.
For separation somehow,
Despite distance, caused no grief.
I can’t forget my lover,
Though I hear you have moved on.
We hurt each other deeply
And these feelings won’t begone.
I cannot wish you evil,
That would go against the grain.
But with your joy, I counsel
That you also bear some pain.
For one without the other,
No sense can it construct,
As concepts out of balance:
Sep’rate are just fucked.

Give me strength!

Give me strength to make it through
The hurdles life can set.
I want to reach the finish without
Having to regret
The things I do to get by
When the going’s really tough.
I need to know I’ve what it takes,
That I am yet enough.

Dedicated follower of fashion

The modern dandy is a scruff
Whose clothes can never cost enough!
On public transport he refrains
From standing up – to crease his jeans.
His hair is gelled to stay in spikes
For fear of flatness – he dislikes
To wash or brush it – he disdains
He stares in windows while on trains
To check that nothing is in place
For tidiness would mean disgrace!
And should it ever come to pass
That he displayed a bit of class?
He never more could slouch among
The truly fashionable throng.

Matchmaker, matchmaker, break me some chairs

My mother, from a tender age
Provoked in me an untold rage.
A constant stream of boys she fed
So hoping soon to see me wed.
But without fail, my dear old mum
Her process of selection done,
Presented me, ‘mid gleeful joy
With one especial type of boy:
A lovely lad, quite neat and clean
So liberal he voted Green,
And above all, (it made my day)
Yes, quite invariably gay.

A sudden sharp blow to the brain

The vice-like grip, at ten a.m. is but a warning, a presage of what is to come. A small twinge, a twitching of muscles, a lightly furrowed brow, then silence. You count the seconds, watch the tumbleweed jump and dance, twisting in the wind as it skips across the hastily vacated brainscape, and you pray for solitude. Eleven o’clock comes and goes, bringing with it a mild headache and a growing sense of foreboding that has nothing to do with the glowering boss lurking behind the advised (and advisable) plate-glass partition. It starts. Twelve thirty sees you staggering toward the cafeteria for a polystyrene cup of boiling monosodiumglutomate and a hunk of stale foam, encased in concrete, and sadistically coated in sesame seeds to provide you with the government-recommended daily requirement of gum-disease. The clouds pass by the window as you pick at your teeth with a ragged fingernail. Your email states that it’s nearly three, but time has little meaning here in the land of artificial light. The phone rings, your ears pop, and suddenly it hits, blinding, terrifying, hideous. You clamber out of the pit and cradle the receiver. Hello? A list of pointless instructions issues forth without provocation. The knife slices vertically through your skull, leaving nothing.

Perceptions (or a mirror on fashion)

The boy I spy across the aisle
His mac done up in grand old style
Considers he is quite a dasher
Pity he’s dressed like a flasher.

I like big earrings, yes Siree
But harbour no illusion
That dressing like a Christmas tree
Won’t cause the cat confusion.

Mohair jumpers, baby pink – though popular with some;
Enough to drive a boy to drink – when girlfriend’s dressed like Mum.
For well loved garments such as these, although a recent fashion,
Were all the rage a score ago, and fanned our parents’ passion.