Poetry Blogs (boredom)

Inertia be damned.

Every time you look at me

It's been too long.

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Boredom slowly creeps upon me,

Like a fog on top a hill.

My eyes start glazing over,

My brain is standing still.

I’m trying to take notice,

Of the message being said,

But it all just sounds like noise to me,

Facts won’t stay in my head.

If only I could listen,

For just a minute more,

Yet concentration eludes me,

I’m thinking of the door.

I can see the mouth is m...

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In a similar fashion to ink blots 
Various skull shapes gather 'round 
The skeletal mini blind panorama 
Various forms of madness play out 
Like stale jazz 
All under the lamp with the dunce cap 
And electric yellow snot 
The insects pay homage to this diety of the night 
With bizarre kamikaze rituals... 
And here I was 
Just turning it on and off... 
Oh what horrors and discoveries 
A...

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Sun through window,

Clock ticks.

I stare into space,

Blank mind like empty canvas.

Pen taps,

Doodles,

Failed slaughterer of time.

Work unfinished,

Clock ticks.

Cold coffee untasted,

I look at unread my emails,

and ignore them.

Facebook?

Clock ticks.

Clock ticks.

Clock ticks.

Shuffle papers,

Move mouse,

Press keys,

Clock ticks.

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As the storm continues

So does the rust

On the BBQs

Of the just and unjust

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Spin the washing and hang it up

Mow the lawn and rake up the grass

Put out the bin and sort out your life

Oh and get a carton of milk before you go home to the wife

You’ve got your shirt to iron before you go to work

And your shoes need buffing and the car needs filling

So you’ve got no choice but to put your life on hold

But there’s time for a pint...

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Tired of Sunday’s parades,

            the rebel child slept;

He hated Monday,

Slept right through,

         Hated Tuesday,

         Slept through that too.

                 The rebel child would not wake,

                        On Wednesday nor on Saturday.

But he awoke on Sunday morn,

Wishing he had not been born.

He muted himself, for he would n...

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Peacock Dreams

“Cashier to checkout seven please.”

She barely hears; behind her mask of Monday smile.

She steers each item past the barcode beep, and sleepworks

- finds that it’s the only way to make it through the disappointment, rude necessity

and shame of this small life, of “every day is like the last”

and tomorrow will be, predictably,

just the same.

Trapped on the conveyor ...

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Last stop before paradise.                                                                              

An April rain has streaked the windows, smudging the view of suburban streets.

The chill breeze bends the spring’s first flowers and the TV’s showing old repeats.

In the lounge of The Willows nursing home the care assistants are serving teas.

After the adverts comes the snooker and ever...

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