(20 minute poetry)

There's not much to say about Thursday that hasn't already been said,
nothing to write that cannot be read

it's a bit like trying to live when you're already dead.

The week end is lumbering in like a giant mammoth that's drunk on gin,


I can't begin to tell you how that makes me feel.

There are days I want to stay away and Thursday's one of them
but as sure as trees are made of wood it'll come next week again.

I'm lighting a candle down here in the mine
or
as some people call it, the underground line.

The line that will define me in a time that's yet to find me

I suffocate in the kindly stare of those gentlefolk, but do they really care?

A bit subliminal on the Central,
a tad bound underground and you
may laugh at me caught in the trap
but we're all caught up in something.

Advertising telling me to 'eat well', 'keep fit' 'how to have a healthy colon' and I have to spit,
leave me alone to travel on my own into Zone one where I can zone out,

there's not much to say about
Thursday.