If Monday was a person,
Maudlin would be the lesson,
"Oh no, not another Monday."
"What became of Sunday funday?"
Yes, it's Monday, so it seems,
Same old dreary routine,
Back to the rat race again,
Commuting by car or train,
Wage slaves, off for gain,
Maudlin Monday on their brain,
"Yes, it's Monday, so it seems,
Same  old dreary  routine."

Kiss me a galaxy
and I’ll orchestrate
the best musical
with each and
every shooting star

Kiss me a note
and I’ll generate
volumes of kisses
imprinted for
each and every moment
I have wanted to
kiss you back

I can taste the clouds
when our hands are intertwined
and his utterances always linger
but more like euphoria than
a shattered spine.
And I've never spoken to him
a lukewarm truth,
I've never loved him in grey;
We're amateurs,
cradled by caffeine on
Monday mornings,
still learning how flowers
can break through skin
that's mourning.

When you wake and think it's Monday night, then you look again, it's getting lighter, it seems that dream was just a noose that's twisting tighter around your neck.

She gives me a peck, is this what I have become?
a crumb for her to nibble on.

I persevere
shower and shave,
I will forever be
a slave to coffee,
tea
is not me
not
on a Monday
not
when I wake and then think
that it's done
only to realise
Monday
has not yet begun.

Between day and night, choose fight or flight, hide out of sight, shield from the light.

Cocooned in our beds, words trapped in our heads, a poets mind is forming, ideas begin their swarming.

Not conforming
              Lines deforming
                        Minds contorting
                                       Rhymes consorting.

Caffeine
a pen
I yawn and then
yawn again

nothing flows out except
mothballs

cloth ears they called me
deaf to their pleas
but
I was as different as
chalk is to cheese.

I yawn once more while
weevils bore into my brain
and yawn again.

The snipers have got me
shot me on Monday
sometimes I wish
I was
Solomon
Grundy

then I fall
into the week
because I'm weak
or antique
couldn't hold on to
the
yawn again
dawning on me that
what I see is
what I'll be
by Friday.

you could walk a two hundred mile trail
under the moonlight solace
or sit on the most profound corner
of your black hole
spend two hours on what ifs
and contemplate on why nots

write about the people you loathe
and sing to the people you adore
you could do anything
and be anything

but whatever i am or whoever i was
was a residue left on your christmas plate
lingering in the dark halls of your thoughts
and breathing in your monday day dream