Do you hear what I hear?

When I speak the words aloud

Are you listening to each pause?

The whispers between the sounds

Sibilant sighs, plosive pops and

Friction reflected in fricatives?

The more clipped and precise my

Consonants and vowels

The angrier I am.

Do not mistake my veneer

For truth, I will remain

Icily polite.  Strangers may not

Understand the depth of rage

Concealed beneath these dulcet

Tones. But trust me

When you listen

To what I do not say

You will hear my thoughts

And then, if you are wise

Turn tail and flee

Before my temper

Gains its head

Snake Oil, Sass and Razzamatazz

I envy those women in the magazines
It goes back to something missing from my teens

Their white trouser, silk blouse lifestyle
When pimples and bad hair were my style

Do I deserve their barefoot walks on the beach
With a dog whose perm is out of my reach?

Can I emulate their effortless charm
In a climate where thick vests are the norm?

And as advertising copy is rife
Where do I sign up for their perfect life?

With a spouse who is polite to my mum
And a car that is the envy of someā€¦

Or is that only alive on the page
While we sigh, we buy, but bicker and rage?

What has happened to us living the dream
In a home of painted white wood and cream?

How are we supposed to manage to burn
All the endless stuff they tell us to earn?

And as pensioners smile sweetly at kids
While their offspring bust a gut on the skids

Keeping families from floating away
Working harder, longer hours each day

For an ad campaigner, trainer, shamer
Knows no namer, public blamer

Never better, next trend setter
Panty wetter, promo debtor

How is this for living the dream
We grip tighter than our miracle cream?


To whom must I carry
This fight for my life?
May I choose the weapon
I wield in such bout?

Too much goes unchallenged
To forego the knife
It’s all souls be damned
If we don’t have it out

Or is it unwritten
More truistic lore
That what may have been
Is what yet must endure?

If such be the ruling
I fancy it time
The tables were tipped
To new flavour of crime

I’m deluged by duty
The dreadfullest foe
And Wednesday’s child
Has a head-ful of woe

A small enough wager
This minimal soul
All but shredded for bandages
Wholesomely foul

To gather her forces
Aye, therein the rub
With little to muster
And less up above

But battle she will
Nay, still stronger – she must
Ere the blood in her veins
Stains the dust dirty rust

So passionless sweethearts
Untruthful and grey
Be leached of my love
And stay hidden away

I’ve a need to reclaim
All the hours I lost
And hold views on the interest
Added to cost

Here’s a health to the vigorous
May she prepare
For all that her demons
Can throw at her there

It soon will be ended
Decided and done
And with luck of the draw
She may keep what is won


Two dimensional tech support
I switch to desktop view
And open Windows to your heart
To see what else is new

The virus checker cannot cope
With all you put me through
Downloading tripe ’til systems choke
What’s an Admin to do?

But lock it down as best she might
Until she finds the cure
RegEditing through half the night
SAD, cmd-prompt and sore

Perhaps one day will come a tool
That knocks them all for six
But while we wait to see that jewel
I’ll try my usual tricks…

Frustration (or why the female of the species is more deadly than the male)

The clown at work
Who wrecks his tech
Until you’d, cheerful
Break his neck

The letch en route
Who’d lick your thighs
Whose comments make you
Roll your eyes

The slobs, commuting
That don’t share
Shift bag, nor arse
To spare a chair

The manager
Who can’t decide
To rule the troops –
Job suicide

The lover’s ears
That don’t retain
A single word
Of our refrain


Generally I have a very cool and level head, but there are certain occasions when keeping a lid on my temper costs me something by way of personal sanity. On the day the gang-affiliated tosspot half my age decided to amuse himself by deliberately spraying his deodorant in my face from the seat behind me on the bus, I held my tongue and counted to ten (I’m not suicidal), and did a lot of silent cursing while the tears of ocular irritation ran down my face. Then I penned this vicious little snippet.

There are days when I wish
For a knife or a gun
So the dickhead behind me
Receives what may come
Controlling my temper
Gets harder to do
Imagining harm
Satisfying and new
On occasions where patience
Has already snapped
Where my favoured response
Involves scalpel and sac
I content myself knowing
A hex may do more
Inflicting revenge
For the merciless boor


Metro – boulot – dodo
Mais ce tri-rhythme ne fait pas
Mention aux heures passees
Entournee de la foule des sots
Les inanites quotidiens
Qui font partie du vague
De violences et d’impuissances
Qui me pervadent
Quand on se trouve fermee
Comme un veau, sous le sol
Dans le foutu metro

Et au bureau – faisant boulot
On bosse, point. Et pourtant
Le chef, il dort dans son cabinet
A sentir couler du robinet
L’eau de vie et du passe
Vos esperances; amours frustres
Pendant qu’on fasse ses devoirs
Comme si on se trouvait toujours
Au lycee, devant un mec aine
Qui s’est convaincu – c’est pas a lui
De faire ce qu’il faut de quoi qu’il soit
Et tout ca commence avec un mot
Son bonjour-argot ”pret, le cafe?’

Alors, qu’est-ce qu’on fait
Au moment du rentree?
Mais dormir – c’est ca
Apres chaque journee.


Tube – desk – bed

Tube – desk – bed
But this triple rhythm does not
Make mention of the hours spent
Surrounded by the crowd of fools
The daily inanities
Which make up the wave
Of violence and frustration
Which seeps into me
When I find myself enclosed
Like a veal, underground
In the fucking tube

And at the office – beavering away
One slaves, full-stop. And meanwhile
The boss, asleep in his cubicle
Listens to the tap dripping
The water of life and of the past
Your hopes; frustrated loves
While one does his duty (for him)
As if one were still
In school, in front of an older boy
Who has convinced himself it isn’t for him
To do what he ought, of whatever it is
And the whole thing starts with a tiny phrase
His greeting-slang ‘Is the coffee ready yet?’

So what does one do
When one reaches home?
But sleep – that’s all
After every single day

The bored minuter’s waltz

I am not the enemy
I write down what you say
If you prefer machines to me
Then that is quite okay

Just buy yourself a Dictaphone
Rely on cold hard fact
To show you up for what you are
A self-important prat

If you despise the notes I take
Then you are more than welcome
To opt for less diplomacy
And hear the drivel spoken

I shall not be offended –
Switch to electronic means
Your meeting’s open-ended
So just lock up when you leave

An oath for thee, Hippocrates

Passion curling from the wires
Humours, good and ill
Twisting up in wordless fires
To smoke the mind until

All dessicated, one by one
Each thought is slowly drained
As ears are filled with shovelled dung
And feelings feeling maimed

Then comes the call to end all such
Unpleasant fractious whine
The final straw, when all – too much
Has built up over time

A gentle coo, a saving grace
Is whispered from above
And slowly turn with pained face
To greet the one we love

Ah, blessed biscuit, sacred tea
More skilled at healing’s art
Than Panacea’s family
When all has split apart