I have a psycho pussycat,
Black, green-eyed and middle-aged.
Fusses come with a caveat,
Claws and nips at any stage.
*How many times must a writer revise and edit,
Before satisfaction is grasped?
How many times must the same thing be read,
Before an end can be named?
The answer is countless, infinite and forever,
The answer is insanity comes first.
*Ironically, this whole verse written in one single go.
But maybe it shows?
(Inspiration/explanation: The author is currently caught in a cycle consisting of around 600 words, which form the basis to ‘the beginning’ of a new short story – one completely unrelated to anything Dylanesque. Laid on the bed, dressed in T-shirt and underpants, one slipper on, one slipper off, laptop on lap, I just so happened to shout out the first line of this improvisation – in frustration, to the tune of “Blowin’ In The Wind”. The rest, followed promptly.)
People as strangers, I find generally rude.
That’s how I feel, as an average dude.
They live by a raging, self-entitled arrogance,
A template used, based on sheer ignorance.
I’ve witnessed this attitude, cut through social strata,
From London to Milan, New York and Bogota.
Not only these cities, but across the whole globe,
Offence found in all places, I’ve chosen to probe.
Whereas, I hold open doors, I do so without fail,
Say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’, compose polite emails.
It’s not that I’m a sad-sack nor a needy maniac,
Doesn’t everybody benefit, from modest positive feedback?
When eaten by the rudeness, I appeal upward to Zeus.
Despite knowing well, it will serve little use.
Best thing to do, without a trace of sarcasm:
Smile earnestly, move on, with a revived enthusiasm.
There’s no one out there,
When help is needed,
Or a valid complaint is made,
Deserving of an answer.
I’m basically talking to the stars.
Although simply put,
It supports the idea,
Of a programmer,
Responsible for my life simulation.
Because, He/She/They don’t know the answers.
They maybe studying, experimenting,
Perhaps having some recreational fun.
Or, I am a pet.
But God no,
Anyway, they don’t know how to respond,
And nor do they want to,
When I complain or ask for help.
They’re not experts in that particular field.
Possibly not experts in any particular field.
If I keep pushing,
They’ll press ‘DELETE’.
“Do you really want to exit and end the programme?
All saves will be lost.
This action cannot be reversed.”
If I’ve been an interesting enough character,
They’ll bring me back,
Into their next simulation.
“More successful, next time!”
But, I’m just talking to the stars.
When I was smaller and growing,
In the suburbs of old Aberdeen,
Each bairn from our neighbourhood had,
Turns out, their own trampoline.
Above the back garden fences,
Excitement accelerates skyward.
Tri-umphant arms waved in the air,
While leaping as high as they could.
Intrigue provoked as I stared,
Grappling the whole mystery.
And how those high jumpers appeared,
Only marginally older than me.
“They ur booncin’ oan trampolines mah son!”
Shared auld Daddy during a chat.
Before I could ask, he fast followed up,
“Yoo’ll nae be messin’ aroond wi’ that!”
Fiona Lewis – who’d handmade me a Valentine’s card
Thomas – now an architect
Fiona Brown – whereabouts unknown
Marcus – who’d kissed me the year before in a filmic manner
We sit on the concrete bridge to watch
as each in turn we try not to botch
our attempts to walk the ledge
running along the brook edge
A metre and a half high
up above the water
the further one progressed
the more the ledge got smaller
the angle more acute
your whole body
flattened against the supporting wall
and that’s not all …
Right near the end
but still too far to jump
it felt like the soles
of one’s school plimsolls
could easily lose their grip
Sending us tumbling into the shallow waters
into the weeds
creating billowing clouds of mud
and scattering all of the minnow fish
We played this many times
and the challenge
never once diminished