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Analogue IV

Analogue IV

Just a second I’d said to my darling,
Take as much as you wish she replied,
But I wait for no man, she adds with a grin,
As her hands swish from side to side

She wants more from our time together,
Seems to her that I take and don’t give,
Her grandfather said the same thing to her
And it’s not a good way to live

I explained that the tocks weren’t a problem,
And it wasn’t her fault to be fair,
But she was driving me to distraction,
With her ticks that I just couldn’t bear

At least I’m not two faced like you she replied,
So I paused and I counted to ten,
Silence between us, the cogs start to turn,
Seems I’m winding her up again

My issue she gently concluded,
Was my head had been turned around,
By those digital chicks, who don’t suffer from ticks
Power mad without making a sound

She tried not to be too alarmist,
but the beeps that they make really grated,
And their plastic and buttons and wires made her ill
I said true, but at least they aren’t dated

But they make you so late in the morning she says
It’s a fact that I cannot refuse,
You can trust me to get you up right on time,
I won’t give you the option to snooze

You’re behind the times dear I protested,
Second hand goods if you will,
And as for your roman numerals,
Well – I’ve pretty much had my fill

Well, if that’s how you feel then we’re finished,
She chimes in, and we went our own ways,
Now I’ve lost all conception of minutes or hours
I do well to remember the days

I while away moments in silence
My alarm clock provides no rapport,
She just flashes at me from the corner
And I wish things were just as before

Take heed of my error of judgement
And that life passes by for all men
She won’t give me the time of day anymore
And I doubt I will see her again

Christmas, dark humour, funny poems, poems, poetry, writing

A Christmas poem

A tangle of wires and musty glued pasta reindeers

Tumble without ceremony from the loft hatch,

It is still July

Christmas started so early this year it was 

called late Christmas 

or mid Crimbo for its proper title

People stand next to pseudo sheds and punt a tenner

For a weak lager in a festive glass

Which you can keep if you like

But no one wants the memories

They scoff down large sausages

Which are German

And made of minced yuletide

Festive gin flavoured gin ruminates under the stairs

In a dark space, fermenting like a bright star anise

a seed of crumbling blackness

We post cheap cards round the street

Hoping the neighbours aren’t in

Christmas day last three seconds of paper storms,

a Sunday roast and a hangover from bonfires

the satiated family in a celebratory limbo

Settle down and lick chocolate bunnies,

Halloween haunts the bulbs of Spring

Wrap themselves into impossible knots

And refuse to light us up

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So popular

Ooh, I love a soap opera me,

The way the story lines repeat across each other

how each character can morph from bad boy to hero

at the script writers whim

once every ten years, they put together a band

Release a Christmas song

So popular, soap opera

but now they don’t even advertise soap

it’s more of a domestic appliance

like a tv, that feeds a stream of distraction

from the horrors of real life

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False advertising

Remember those first heady days

It was a new year, which meant a new resolution

We would try to make this work out

Or that work out, find a solution

I bought a new outfit, I’m going to look fit

But you didn’t believe it

Not one little bit

Like in any relationship

You have to work hard

So I put in the effort

And every extra yard

You told me be patient

Good things come to he who weights

 But all you did was take my money

How could we be soul mates?

I did all the running

My diet made me thin

I just gave it my all

And you offered me spin

Its no competition you said

Not a race

I was a guy on a treadmill

Not going any place

It was sink without swimming

Your steamy session plans

Landed me in hot water

And a leisure centre ban

Your talk of a healthy future

Could not keep me on track

It seems you’d just find other ways

In which I probably lack

Now everything hurts

And with every muscle ache

I wonder how many other guys

You left in your wake

I’m leaving now

Keep your money, your kudos

Your false promises and vim

It’s over, its finished, I’m done with you