The time has come to gather up the mundane machinations of a life lived
in an office
in the undergrowth
bewildered in the wild that isn’t the wild
but a sea-bed of brown stripes
that wipe the wind from the effervescent sails
of all who enter
as they wail
into the photocopy machine
trying to glean some kind of reason-for-being
instead of just standing by
waiting for the pages to print
and some kind of life to prevail
and the Big questions to be Bigger than whether the machine automatically staples the pages together or not?

So I have come to rot.

And check Facebook with every other breath
as if it’s some test I must pass
in order to check whether I’m alive or not really living
but just being
in order to pay some preordained bills that secure your place in this world
so you can stand tall
and come to crave Bloody Marys with your bottomless brunch
to recover from the bottomless bottles of Prosecco you had the night before
because it was Friday night
and that’s what you do now that you have softened your soul
into the role
of Robot Receptionist.

‘Tis to exist.

And Monday will come all too soon
and you will bemoan the endless tiredness
those mistaken wounds
as you compare hangovers
and shudder at the thought of that cone on your head
that beacon of orange
someone’s livelihood surrendered into fits of giggles
and Sandra pissing herself
baby-less for the night
rekindling her Babyliss curls and the cackle that cracks glass
lost since the morning sickness
and nowadays a fondness for ginger biscuits
they ease the pain
in the stomach
and make retching less wretched.

Ah but those solemn days left us on the shore only to weep no more
as tides played, as dancers do
– we pranced too –
and navigated our way to Wednesday politics
of microwave lust and tattoos on show
we couldn’t grow
we chose to stay
our necks in a noose – loose –
with the freedom to go but with a tag on our wings
then it was Spring.
How the blossom billows and captures seeds of doubt.

There is a tree underneath
let us lay a wreath.

We meet for a coffee in disco lights and talk of wanting to kill ourselves
on cushions of caffeine dust
– such is the life for us –
we stop comparing pain for a second
to see a couple giggling beside the buckwheat muffins
(she strokes his muscle and shouldn’t).
They wear a square of grey suits – this is no casual loot –
no second date but a serious state
of affairs
presenting presentations in hope of promotion
and she has a boyfriend back home, up in the north
and she usually wears pink and won’t say no to fluff
– but this guy, he’s buff –
and we’re in the Capital now
and it doesn’t take Columbo to conclude
they have been flirting over the Tassimo machine
she even showed him her tattoo
she had to pull her skirt to the side and it made her feel wet
like a seventeenth century servant
showing the master her flesh
and they both watched her pimples rise in shock
to have escaped
their secret place, the warmth
and now he is looking at her as he picks up a muffin
and his cock twitches as he sniffs the chocolate chips
and he pictures his teeth sinking into her tits
– God this is bliss –
and it doesn’t matter that he has a wife and a baby that won’t sleep
right now there is him and there is her
and they are both giggling at some shit joke the client made
and underneath it all they know
their skin will touch tonight.

And it’s so bright, brighter than you ever thought
and it burns you into impartial depression
right through to your core.
Who knew there’d be so many options of hate
in every option of tea and cake?
And when Tuesday comes and you are sure it’s the end of the week
it’s death’s door
until Karen from accounts brings in something sweet
and you will join in the stampede
like you’re running from fate
and line up in the kitchen
– it’s the second coming –
no it’s strawberry muffins!
She was up all night
it’s her dream
she does it in her spare time, on the side
it’s just for fun now until she gets it right
she’d die if she could do it
then she’d leave this place for good.
The thing about Karen is:
she’s misunderstood.

But right now these souls are dead souls
and you are Hades navigating bodies
on your trolley made of tea

let it be me.

No
you will spread out these battered wings as you wait for flat iron steak
it’s a bargain at a tenner
it’s the going rate
just disregard the extras, the accoutrements
that you can pick and choose to make up a plate of normal food
it’s more fun this way you hear them say
as you line up along the wall
as if about to be shot
and the thimble of complimentary sherry they’ve thrust down your throat
will only add punch to your Twitter tomorrow
in which you’ll gloat
omitting the part about the toe you lost in the cold
and the shiver that hung on til the end
when the bill was produced
and the ten pound promotion miraculously grew
two more zeros

and this London was no longer your hero.

But for a beat
because this is the greatest city on earth
and how lucky you are to exist
in this place
to breathe this injurious air
to fight for your humanity
discover your fate?

Shall we breed?

Let’s spread this seed and layer up the blood.
This rage won’t age
it is fixed as the fingernails on the offspring
it will frame the circles on the family tree.
Have a baby, dear,
it will set you free.

But beware the silent fillers that cut through
that await you in the dark
the exquisite blue
that spark
of nothingness
of luminous legs and glasses full,
the filtered amniotic fluid and green-eyed juice
you never knew you wanted til now
til Lucy from development stood up from her desk
stood out one day
the last fighter on the field at Ypres
to declare peace of mind to the almost dead
that putting turmeric in your latte will change your life.

You’re blessed.

And can I highly recommend an Instagram feed?
To satiate your insatiable need
not to eat but to read
about this thing they call food
or food that’s not food, meat that’s not meat
but a juicy burger made solely of beets
so we can sleep well at night
breathe a sigh of relief
as we heap our woes upon our lavender pillows
knowing we’ve done our bit.

And when the morning comes and you separate
the plastic window from the paper envelope
you will let it pass through your mind
how happy you are to be middle class and rich
that you deserve this Nespresso hit
because life’s too short to grind
your own coffee or granulated, god forbid
you’ve earned it
and yes, if it came to it,
you would stand up and spit
at all those underlings of Britain
who don’t give a shit.

You’re here now, to save the day
to make a stand
to say: that the fields of gold we seek
lay not in turkey twizzlers and chips mid-week
but in the elegance of a moon cup launched into your vag
to collect all the diabolical blood (of which we do not speak)
a Goddess sarcophagus, clotted red,
or our secret surgeries, compressed
into a perfumed wrapper, purple, finessed
that cost us a milky latte
but conveniently neat
and we fold it up in the cubicle, like a gift
as Janice from Sales tells you all about her bloated feet
and then you walk back into your meeting
smiling
discreet
as if you’ve just been told a joke
because no one wants a weakling
breaking up the blokes
who have really got ahead with this assignment
while you were busy in the loo
preening your flyaway tresses
and flirting with Barry the bosses son
no doubt fishing for compliments
and a blue-chip dick to climb upon.

Fear those heavenly bodies
the Dictators
that tell you how to rob your life of gist.
Beware the divine weavers that weave the webs around your door
coaxing out your entrails
for the price of an inadequate manicure
but at least you’ll be able to reveal
this slice of your life
the majestic, the unreal
so you can once again conceal
the looseness of your eyes
your mind
the thousand inconsequential irregularities
that fracture the shape
of this China doll
hacked
by the bull of this law to destroy
passion, misspent
to poison the innocent
and re-educate the dead.