Rough Night

I’m far too boring for parties like this –
I’d rather be reading a book in the corner.
I ought to mingle, but what should I say ?
If I could hear their replies, anyway.
But all around me are deep in bliss,
So what right have I to be a scorner ?
Force a smile, don’t bring them down,
And cross the room before I drown.
I came from a fear of loneliness,
But now I feel more lonely than ever.
Why does my silence feel like assault ?
And why does it feel like it’s all my fault ?
We’ve nothing in common but ev’ning dress –
We’re separately alone together.
Yet surely people like me exist ?
But they won’t be found at parties like this.

Buttons

How did ancients ever close their clothes,
Do you suppose,
Before the button was first threaded through the buttonhole ?
Metal hooks or bows ?  Who knows ?
But what its lacking shows
Is how quickly buttons sewed-up their control.
But over time they frayed,
As we fiddled, faffed, and flayed,
And went awol as their stitches face abuse –
They hold a fatal bug,
Where a simple careless tug
On a dangling string can let them on the loose.
It leaves their hole a void
Where they used to be employed –
Forever lost, when all their bindings are unspun.
But at least they’re silent grips,
Unlike the noisy velcro strips,
Or zips –
But one day soon, they’ll surely come undone…

Rivals

You do me wrong, you cad !
Egad !, I’ll snap your swagger stick.
I’ll pay-back ev’ry insult, lad,
And you’ll be glad I made it quick.
I’ll give you thirty licks, and then I’ll add
Another thirty more.
I’m wise to all your tricks, comrad,
And tell you this means war…
Don’t doubt me on that score, you rake,
You’ll soon be aching bad.
I’ll bring the hurt, make no mistake.
My words are iron clad.
I’ll bound you over, bounder !
You shall flounder on my spleen –
How dare that you imply that I
Am such a drama queen…

Undrunk

Alcohol is a stranger,
I’ve never imbibed in my life.
I’ve always found its taste so vile,
And thus, tea-total is my style.
Its power becomes a danger,
It can only lead me into strife –
I cling to a dry piety
To shield in safe sobriety.
Ev’ry drunken friend is proof –
It makes them far more sad than arty.
Their wasted health and gifts are crimes –
As I slyly wish for Temp’rance times.
But I cannot help but be aloof
As the only sober at the party –
I wasn’t meant for a hedonist –
Though part of me wonders, what have I missed ?

I am fully aware of the etymology of the idiom ‘tee-total’, and I have decided that I don’t give a toss.

Reckless

Brace yourself, cos here comes life,
Ignoring health and safety –
Where bending rules and brains is rife,
And favouring the hasty.
Sometimes, being stupid pays,
And consequences turn out flat –
If not tomorrow, then today,
And here today is where it’s at.
It isn’t good advice, of course,
To hope for freak results,
But ignorance can be a force,
When logic somersaults.
For sometimes chaos lurks beneath,
Ignoring all our careful sums –
So grit your loins and gird your teeth,
And take life as it comes.

A Most Spirited Turn of Play

“Catherine, who had nothing heroic about her, should prefer baseball.”

Northanger Abbey

Cath’rine Morland steps upto the plate,
And ties her bonnet tighter,
Swings her bat in practice, once, twice,
And holds her breath.
On the mount, she stares at Emma Woodhouse,
Knuckles growing whiter,
And nervous Fanny Price on first,
And knows it’s sudden death.
Behind, she hears the rustle come from
Lizzie Bennet’s morning dress,
As Marianna Dashwood stands at second,
Fidgetting about.
And guarding third, Anne Elliot,
Her ringlets in a tangled mess,
From her recent diving catch
That had sent Mr Darcy out.
Meanwhile, Jane and Elinor lie deep,
Despite their steady aim –
Perhaps they’re only here to help
Their sisters’ latest craze ?
And Susan Vernon stands aloof in left-field,
Barely in the game –
Yet watched all with int’rest,
As she loosens-up her stays.
Now Emma’s winding up her pitch,
And shortstop Lizzie laughs a burst –
Intended to distract her –
Most unladylike, she notes.
But she hits the screwball to the Moon,
Flings down her bat, and runs to first –
Only to lose both game and poise
When she trips on her petticoats.

Of course, it’s a not all leisure in Jane Austen’s world…

Incels

The world belongs to the charismatic –
The ones who grab the eyes,
Who get the jobs and get the praise
As the rest are shrunk to size.
They’re the ones who get the lovers,
And who get to say their piece,
Who limber-up the shiny pole
Before they’ve poured the grease.

Not like we losers, dumped-on and ignored,
Who you gladly shun.
I could write a thousand poems,
And you’ll read not a single one –
And I have !  I’ve put myself out there,
For the whole world to ignore.
Always the tenth choice, always forgotten,
And kindly shown the door.

Not even my family bother.  Not even my friends,
Those few I have.
You don’t even trouble to mock me,
You don’t even point and laugh.
And when you notice at all, it’s only in hate,
At my loneliness –
You stoke-up your loathing, and relish your spite,
In panicked phoniness.

So spare me your pity, but also spare me a thought
Without disdain.
The world is cruel, but I’m not gonna go
On a killing-spree to complain.
I don’t hate women (sorry to disappoint),
I just want to connect –
Yet the world has labelled me as a weirdo,
A friend of a friendless sect.

The world belongs to the charismatic,
And even I am charmed.
For all I try to help-out likewise-souls
Before we’re harmed,
I get sidetracked by a beautiful smile
Or a loquacious mate-to-all,
And I send my eyes where a million others are looking,
Forever in thrall.

Kismet Cat

Felix the feline is one lucky cat,
When he’s flexing his whiskers and flicking his tail.
He flows full of favour wherever he’s sat,
As his belly is fed and his wishes prevail.
He’s better than strays, he thinks, when stroked and patted –
This fortune’s no fluke, but his fate, he infers –
For this Felis felicitous, flea-less and fatted,
The flux of the fluence is heard in his purrs.

The Pineal Soul

When my father fell into Parkinsons,
He also fell out of God.
Month-by-month, a little less able,
Month-by-month, a little less holy.
It took some time for me to notice,
This sense of something odd,
But he stopped his hymns and stopped his hopes,
As he sank to silence slowly.

When it came to planning his wake,
When we both knew it was soon,
He showed a mild disinterest,
Where he once was so devout.
He hadn’t, I think, had a long dark night –
He hadn’t changed, but hushed his tune –
As if his soul had sprung a leak,
And faith had trickled out.

So is belief just a bunch of neurons ?
Is God just a ghost in the genes ?
Or does it take an untroubled mind
To think beyond the ev’ryday ?
When my father stopped his praying,
Was he lacking now the means ?
I guess what caused that small still voice in him
Had slipped away.

This poem is in no-way about my actual father. Do not assume the I of the poem is really I.