Work Poems

A few poems I’ve had sitting around for a while. Thought I might as well post them. Some are newish, others I don’t even recall writing, but they all have a similar through-line. In no particular order:



Filled with energy,
but eager to return to bed.

Feeling alive,

yet sickly – on a tilt

with my seinous too full.

Caffeine taking hold

with the work-day yawning before me

eager to swallow all my liveliness.


I know not whether to shout the start of the day

or to crawl back beneath the sheets.


Of a Sunday


It is a small thing.
Inconsequential, really,

but the immediacy of it,

on the day,

makes it loom large in the eye.


Time runs quicker,
and the running, with the

rush of speed and compression of air,

adds to the stress.

Each hour attended to by

a mounting frustration,

itself a source of deprivation.


Finally, Night seeps in.
Night is a thin fabric, fit only

for the savouring of that

bitterest of rumens,

wasted Time.


Soon enough, the body is thrown back in.

And the mind, forever(?) shackled to it,

is dragged to the bottom just as inexorably.

Now, the regret comes

and with it,

the souring of future opportunities,

ushered in, compelled, by the

required perspective.


As we all know,

as we all know.

Time is merely relative,

and the experience of it,

it’s up to us.

How, then, to shake ourselves free,

and live as we wish to live?

Post Work Partum


The desire to crawl up inside yourself.

Not tired, but too burned through to care


even though you know you’ve eaten enough

Strung out on caffeine, jittery, short

Even the internet has run out of new things

and you’re

surrounded by people

with their inanities

and their posturing

and you just


fucking care about it all anymore.

Friday Afternoon


The frustration of

scenes, and descriptions

and interactions left

uncaptured for want of

foresight or strength of


The irritation of

plans and stories

and plots conjured on

the cusp of sleep, filling

you with excitement and

energy, only to fade

to ridiculousness, to

inexpressibility, to the

mundane by morning light.

The ever-present anxiety

at being illegitimate, at

wearing un-earned names,

at pinning too much of

yourself on something

ephemeral, on something

that doesn’t fit you.


Posted on November 17, 2015, in Pink Poesy and tagged , . Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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