Poem: Canary

Every year the chillers break,
Every year us workers bake,
Yes it is a sweaty mess,
On the corporate ladder to success,
It’s hard to have blue sky thoughts,
When you are sitting in your boxer shorts,
Sweaty arms, sweaty back,
Sweaty balls, sweaty crack,
Windows you can’t open or close,
Farts from the 80’s all in your nose,
It’s like this throughout the seasons,
Wash everything for hygiene reasons,
Melting hot Summer,
Drafts in the Fall,
Frostbite in Winter,
Spring never happens at all,
Corporate patsies, uniform lines,
Swear they had it better down the mines,
You think I’m joking? Take back what I said?
We had a Canary here. It’s definitely dead.

Part of the WordPress Daily Post: Seasonal Scents


Poem: A Week of Summer

The sun will beam on high,
And time will move on quickly by,
A fleeting glance, Hello, Goodbye,
In my week of summer,

A visitor from a far off place,
With heavenly body and transcendent face,
Company with style and grace,
In my week of summer,

A star that burns bright it quickly fades,
After just that week she’ll fly away,
I hope my angel returns one day,
For more than my week of summer.

Embed from Getty Images

Late Night Poem: Beauty



True beauty,
Never knowing, for certain,
Vanity is sure,
Vanity perpetuates a myth,
A lie said often enough,
Stupid believe.
Vanity is fleeting
Beauty is understated,
Beauty is natural
Effortless, eternal,
She is beauty


(WMB4X) Poem in the Key of Arrgh

Where oh where are my damn keys,
I really need them see,
Have they fallen under the fridge again.
Where can those bastards be?

How can they go astray,
They are less mobile than me,
It’s not like they have gone rock climbing,
Where can those bastards be?

The door is locked I can’t get out,
They have made a prisoner of me,
Am I here whilst they are partying,
Where can those bastards be?

I’ve turned my house upside down,
I have a door but I can’t unlock it,
Now it looks like I’ve been robbed,
Oh, the fuckers are in my pocket.


Find the Key to the universe at the Resident Weebles blog

(WMB4X) The Anti-Poem

What you are about to read is a garbled mess. A mere transfer of thoughts to keyboard, a poem is the closest thing I can think of to describe it. If I win the booker prize this is the piece that will be worth millions.

Is the person speaking confidently surrounded by others, ticking the correct boxes laughing at the right bits, secretly scared that the person sat in the corner going their own way is right. When does keeping up and keeping pace stop us from being who we are.

Are the popular mean to those less socially endowed because they know it is them who can see the mask slip. From afar.

Is it easy to be the outsider?
Not confined. Going it alone. Very much alone. Does solitude make someone strong?
Strong enough to be scared shitless by every day. Scared by the hair thats out of place, the misplaced smile.

Confidence knocked by the (seemingly) confident. Those who are screaming inside, living a lie. Surviving.
Is survival enough?
For the nomadic trail blazer or for the confident fraudster.
Is there not pressure to achieve for both? Make something of yourself. For what? No-one knows for sure.

No-one knows the right or wrong path, the correct way. The correct thing to say, it’s a myth. We all just wing it some better than most. Some quoting holy ghosts. We just all do what feels right (right now) the past is gone no changing that, the future isn’t here just yet, so it’s not available for fuck up or triumph (Both of which will be short lived)

So.. if you are scared. We all are too. Just people better at bluffing than you.

Visit the Resident Weeble, who hasn’t had anything that I’ve been on.

Poem: Rebel


Poem: The Snitch



The snitch is oh so eager,
To report to Miss,
So he’ll get a house point,
Or even steal a kiss.
Not on the lips,

Snitch working the way,
To the top of the class,
By Kissing some butt
Being a pain in the arse,

If we were still at school,
His point I could almost see,
But this is an working office,
And I’m almost thirty three,


(28DW) Poem: Search Terms

I’m your friendly neighbourhood blogger,
And you’ve found me here,
Well done my friend welcome to the party,
Let me buy you a beer.

Did you type in your search term,
With the upmost care,
Or did you type one handed,
Or visit on a dare.

I know what you searched for,
You searched for this and that,
“Religious Bollocks” I understand,
I’m confused by “Kelly Brook fat”

A one off search for lardy Ms Brook,
Would be just a one time kink,
Numerous times a day?
Time for professional help I think.

By LG전자 (LG ‘옵티머스원’, 글로벌 200만대 돌파) [CC-BY-2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0)], via Wikimedia Commons

Kelly Brook.. not fat sorry

Please check out the work of my 28DW reprobates  at The Resident Weeble and A Piece of Pandemonium  or gnomes will die.

Poem: Places Change


What happened to the places we used to go,
All ramshackle and overgrown,
Or refurbished and now unknown,
The places that helped make my life,
Where dogs were walked,
Knees first skinned,
Dogs passed on and hazards removed,
Things left to decline, some improved.
Places change, as do we.
All events consigned to distant hazy memory.


Poem: Festive Lunch

So we gather round the table,
Having paid over the odds,
In case you haven’t guessed,
I’m a “bah humbug miserable sod.”
They twisted my arm to come along,
Paid time off they said,
It’s only on the day,
We are told to take our time instead,
Still in for a Penny in for pound,
In the hope the boss pays for a round,
In the hope I’m sat next to that one bod I like,
In the hope that food is nice,
In the hope that it’s not like last year,
When they run out of beer,

We are not friends round the table,
Everyone cept the most deluded know, but forget,
Making best of just because…
Because of what? Because of a date,
Because some of you think you like each other,
Because Miss “office hot” might let you cop a feel,
Just because you’ve had a meal.

From where I sit, In reality,
It’s still a case of them and me,
They’ll blow festive sunshine up their pipes,
Fake festive smiles never to be wiped,
Why did I pay to share a room with you?
It’s bad enough when they pay me to.

By Photo by M. Rehemtulla [CC-BY-2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0)], via Wikimedia Commons