Friday, 18 February 2011

Friday Night


So saying what you do mean, is mean
Demeaning, or demeaning?
Or is it the mean of what you mean that is meant?
What was the meaning?
Was it what you thought, but did not say,
Or what you said but did not mean?
Or was it just that we did not glean
From what you said
What we should have seen?

Were your words pristine, or not what they might have been?
Is it that on which you were not keen?
And if you now say you did not mean what was said
What was read -And you said it,
Well what did you mean?
What should we, the team, glean?
That you say what you mean?
Or that what you said you didn’t mean?
But it should not have been seen.
Yet what you now utter
Is absolutely pukka?

And although what you say, you do not always mean
As the words can refer to another scene that was seen,
You do now, from what I can glean
Think that we should trust you and hold you in the highest esteem.
But not what you say.
Well not always.
Not what you said yesterday, anyway.
Just what you say ,today. Ok?

You think that we should believe you, that what you say is true
Maybe some of the words, perhaps just a few?
Is the cleaning of meaning
To deem what you said at the scene
Not words on what you would want to lean
For they were fat not lean
Not a little unclean, obscene
A bit off beam?
Do you think we are green
You bite on the byte
Such is your rite
Or our right
Or is it just alright?

Suburban Beast

My mother always warned me about wild animals
To fear their guile and cunning
Their camouflaged gait in the long savannah grass
Stripes blending perfectly with the parched surroundings
The silence of their soft padded paws
Belying cruel predatory power
Not that I saw that many tigers in Croydon
Yet that is what Kellogs thought they should use to persuade me to eat their Frosties
I didn’t really care if he was called Tony, Terence or Theresa
He was a lot bigger than me and was most likely to have me for breakfast

The Pub Condom Machine

I hovered by the machine trying not to look shady
Dreading the mocking wisecrack of “who’s the lucky lady”
But soon the bog was empty, and overflowing was my need
So I embarked upon the task of doing the dirty deed.
I fumbled for my change an assortment of coins
Surely the answer to this burning in my loins
But there were so many options, a veritable distraction
All conspiring to delay my desired satisfaction.

Did I want small medium or large?
Or a ribbed mottled one to show who really was in charge?
Colours and thicknesses, lubed or strawberry flavoured
It really was no time for such choices to be savoured.

My breathing rate increased, my chest was in contractions
As I fed in my change to facilitate the transaction
But my heart sank, my mouth dried, I had fallen out of luck
For one of my coins had just got itself stuck
In limbo also were my dreams of ecstasy and bragging
I had no more money - tonight there would be no shagging
I whispered a few oaths, I cursed and I harangued
And in desperation on the recalcitrant machine I banged
I did it without malice, I intended no harm
But I had failed to notice that the machine was alarmed
It screeched, it wailed, it pulsated - all exceedingly loud
And soon I was surrounded by the bar staff and a crowd
I spluttered out what had happened in desperate explanation
But nothing could save me from abject humiliation

The landlord smiled and said that it was time for me to leave
A lonely walk of shame, so appalling to conceive
“This makes a change” he said, all smiling and bluff
“Throwing out a punter when they HAVEN’T had enough”