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Oli Nejad Dec 2012
The signs creep,
Although it sounds cliche -
The little things:
The morning shave,
Feel but a blink...

A sigh revives
Any thoughts misplaced,
In memories lost,
To stress, and age.
Oli Nejad Dec 2012
To revisit a bench,
In the park of nonsense -
Where as children
We felt colour as drugs:

A pool of rain, reflects
Fleeting wings.
As the moss-oak bench,

Ages.
Oli Nejad Dec 2012
A cigarette drips,
Between fingers and lip.
As the dark of December,

Hangs.
Oli Nejad Dec 2012
Come join the network with me -
Watch your friends in the freak tent, see,
See their pictures when drunk,
Their reactions when dumped,

Just sign here to... 'tacitly' agree.
Oli Nejad Nov 2012
Broken skin burned by bracken, toil.
An earth printed palm.
A shovel, older than memories,
The slight horizon calm.

Years of making others’ beds,
Time spent digging.
The wind and rain he must endure,
Whilst waiting for the living.
Oli Nejad Nov 2012
Don’t watch the people,
Watch the patterns,
The habits, the gestures,
The shared reactions.
Oli Nejad Nov 2012
So it’s about half ten
And my then friend, Ben
Is walking with me to the shops.
We chat **** about lit
As we’re acquainted through college.
So together we’re relatively
Secure in the knowledge
That at least we can agree
On poetry.

As I flip my wrist
To look at my watch
I turn back to notice
That Ben has stopped.
He’s gazing amazed at
An open front door
That’s bustling with boozers
And music that soars.

“Let’s crash it!” Ben demands
Like the house party fascist that he is,
But I have to admit
That my state was somewhat ufit
To be called ‘responsibly sober.’
So with a heavy eyed grin
I say “OK, let’s go in”
And together we both wander over.

As we move through the ranks
Of the bodies that flank us,
Past the guy with a guitar,
That we could hear from afar,
And the girl who sits just there by the wall,
Twirls her hair whilst absently staring
Into a beer,

We stumble upon the kitchen.

Here the music is nearer
And after an hour passes,
Along with some clear glasses
Of spirits and wine,
We think we’re fine
But then, it suddenly hits me.

We’re crashers, I remember
And as if our agenda was destined to fail,
We would now have to bail,
As just when we make a mission
Out of appearing exempt from suspicion
As if by intuition, some bloke asks casually:

“So how do you guys know Dave then?”

Ben decides to aid by looking artfully away
Whilst scratching his *****,
So it seems to me
That the responsibility falls…
“Dave!” I say, looking absently away,
“We go way back make man,
Holidays in Cornwall and that,
Y’know, caravans?”

The bloke goes away,
Presumably in search
Of the mysterious Dave,
And so I turn to Ben and say “Go mate!
We’ve been made!”
We bolt for the door past the prep lads,
The muso and a chap on the floor,
Ben’s grabbing bottles and **** as he goes,
When I hear a voice ask aloud
“Hey Dave do you know those two?”

Hiding our faces we pick up the pace,
Pushing our way to a tidy escape.
We burst out the door and onto the street,
Finding it hard to stay firm on our feet.
Despite getting myself caught on the garden gate,
It has to be said,

Best party to date.
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