When I look through to the stars.
Often,
in the the daytime
and mostly
in my spare-time.
Sometimes they giggle at me
and riddle
at me. Riddling me in,
teasing my skin.
It tingles
now and then,
ideals wriggle away;
but when
I put my things up there,
no-one can touch them
and no-one can rush them.
I know they are mine,
I feel close to them
and sit to laugh with them,
now and then.
In my bag,
a change of scenery
I have.
To lift the weary place
that has displaced the cheery face
of the other day.
What a mucky-pup I am,
and I don’t give a damn
about the mess in my talking
along with the untidyness of my walking.
The way,
as they say,
of the world
is that the physics are sometimes wrong.
Such a pitty
when the words of a song
don’t rhyme,
but they don’t have to all the time.
My words don’t always
rhyme,
and my rhythm skips a beat
now and then.
Trees, wildflowers and birds and song
may not line the scenery I hold.
But scenery I do hold,
it’s not bare at all.
Since I’ve been hurt,
it’s so difficult to flirt.
Taking the little chances that everyone takes –
make eye contact,
a sweet smile,
few well placed touches,
perhaps a cheeky joke
and some naughty insinuations if possible.
It used to be so easy
but now the consequences seem too great.
Now slightly
too aware
of how hard it is to care
for someone like me.
Don’t drunken-text use me,
it just confuses me
senses,
making me pensive.
How many times is Paula Radcliffe going to mention – ‘I’ve been out for a run this morning.’
AAAARRRRGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG!
I’ve almosted killed you
in front of the glass door,
then I’ve framed you
everytime I committed mischeif.
Trust that whenever I try to sell
my faulty jokes,
you will eagerly buy.
And tiresome sighs
just add to our dryness.
To be named after a saint,
but Paul you aint
because the life you paint
is a colourful one indeed.
What will you make of this poem?
Probably an impatient groan,
but I hope you’ll find it’s grown
on you in a few years time.
Whilst the flow of wine
lets us pour thoughts
over many memories that have
made us what we are.
You only dream
about the people
you hate.
When I see you in my
dreams, you don’t know me so well.
I guess they aren’t dreams anymore.
I know.
Let’s write
about the good old days,
when we hadn’t achieved
our dreams.
And
we still
got excited about
getting drunk.
Inbetween
my toes, the space is
expanding.
When I left I took my coat,
but then I eventually realised
it wasn’t raining at all.
A Clubber's Guide to Life 