In the office
Softly sleeping
Harshly woken
Hearing meetings
Hearing everyone
in meetings
bleating
on&on&on
& while sleeping
I'd been dreaming
& my face
was really beaming
Cos while sleeping
I'd been dreaming
Of a freshly buttered scone

17th June 2017.

Self obession will be the death of Me.

It was witching hour three sheets to the wind and a blinding high beam now spinning out of control into a ditch contorting cemetery fencing around the windsheild at windpipe height and I think to myself, "That's almost poetic."

It was a normal day-
I went for a coffee at the Jazz Café.

And out through the soaked windows
I saw a malign, wanton city
Vehicles perishing the streets
Pouring their sooty fumes into the
Gaping mouth of the crowds.

I took a sip of the cappuccino-
The sweet bitterness;
Casted me back to those long
Winter months (wasted) -
I spent mourning about you.

I would shroud my room in black
Drink, drink, drink until-
All hues of blue
Would drown me in the Ocean of Woe.

Then Chet Baker mellowed the room:
'Some blues are sad, but some are glad, dark and sad.'

I felt as if I was suffocating.
There was something eerie about that jazz.

So I walked out-  of the light.
Let the rain rinse my sins, dance
Like a flapper: complacent, rebellious, dangerous,

puff away my eclipsed universe.
My blues were more than a cold colour:

'They're a moan of pain, a taste of strife and a sad refrain.'