Where were we?

by | Nov 20, 2019

 

Where were we?

That’s right, yesterday, you made me stay away,

reined me in, stopped me calling,

not that you could hear me,

know me, have told me, to scold me,

for forgetting, there was much to do,

I told myself , held from myself, firm in thinking,

about my my blinking, challenging the sinking, feeling that,

my stalling, from my calling, in my reports, your retorts,

contortions, the waste of time it showed, you, crowed,

not interested to know, the blow, it might instil,

as you took your righteous fill,  

as the imaginary, temporary interruption to my living,

prevented my giving you, forgiving you, or bothering,

to flee from thanking you, thinking you,

might either wage, rage, set the stage,

for being more than no one.

 

What was it, were you afraid?

or I, with my heavy set agenda, to surrender,

neither borrower or lender, so you said,

did you offer me your seat, stoop to feel the heat,

at my feet, in the moment of conceit, the story that you sheet,

reminding me of what you have,

without a word to impress, not allowing for egress,

from this extraordinary mess,

this trudge through the great descending haze, the malaise,

of your desperation, or your clarification,

stay true so you say, to the evidence you find,

in the limits in your mind,

nothing to unwind, your preservations, reservations,

of wanting to wake you so you’d hear me.

 

I’m not as rich as you, Palm Beach with a view,

motor, scooter for the run,

to buy the wine, dine, and refine

over your memberships and payslips, your aphoristic quips,

regularly arriving, not for striving,

auto-cliving the struggles of the others,

your brothers, their mothers, if you’d just had your druthers,

no wait, that’s not right, you must continue,

as you review your retinue, the landscape before you,

eschew those who deplore you,

as others who adore you, would I call you,

so you’d finally hear and find a small inspiration,

in my perspiration, exasperation, your quiet desperation.

 

What was it? Ah, of course, your celebrations,

the permutations of all that you’ve achieved,

so relieved to have believed what was right under your feet,

to beat, to eat, the leavened bread of conquest,

thoughts to suppress, to please,

or perhaps appease, the Master’s beseeching

while they were teaching, the rules, the game,

the whistling up of fame, of sorts, to hide your little rorts,

respected in the sun, the monthly shopping run,

as you look behind, while you find,

the feelings that you left, the people, the people, the people,

left behind,

through the smoke ring of your mind,

to prevent you falling, satiate the feeling,

of your stealing,

while you placate, await, the ceiling of your stalling.

 

What was it? your yearning for respect,

to cover for neglect, inspect, the reject pile,

of tossed away from where, you left behind your care,

with them you’re in cahoots,

the roots of trodden boots, to not give two bloody hoots,

on the place you left your mark, so you’d,

find a place to park, and hustle after dark,

among your friends, who watched you enter in,

devoid of sin, in the bin,

of your shining bright career, well,

have another beer, fine wine, champagne, extend the noble cheer,

kind of now we know, onto another show,

flash your ready smile, for a mile, in your pile,

the family farm awaits, close the gates, the goats,

the moats, to keep away the threats, regrets, the bets,

on whether you would win, and pour another gin,

oh where do I begin,

to show you, know you, as you crow, laugh, or die.

 

Now where were we? The grinding of the pain,

oh listen to that rain, to wash away the stain,

a relief to finally have it, to feel it, conceal it,

your secret, don’t reveal it, not yet,

one day, if I pay, the price tag on the garment,

the deferment, your confinement, in retirement,

you deserve it, what ever it is you have,

the faces, tie the laces of the Chav,

who’ll look you up one day,

and ask that you might pay, without further delay,

wave him right away,

a tenner, he can spend it, tell him you will send it, or pretend that it,

can buy some of your hors d’oeurve, the dinner that you serve,

the days that you observe, the carnage that you swerve,

to keep your little nerve,

the medals that you’ve earned, to never be returned,

will I ever learn, burn, to see, or flee, for you, to see me,

in the mirror.

© copyright – Stephen Newman 2019

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