forty

Loserville

In the big Airport
I wait for the small bus
That whisks me off to a small town

Been to the big city again
Still haven't found my fortune
And now I'm on my way home to
Loserville

Been here a mighty long time
Drinking wine and watching the TV
Listening to the buses come and go, but always returning to
Loserville

The kerbs are dusty, and sometimes paper blows there
And plastic and cardboard too, dropped by the dustmen
Nobody notices them, they stay there, everyone stays in
Loserville

(I've a lump in my throat, I've crashed the party again...
It's no good looking at the horizon for help)

So I buy another CD, and take it home
Singing alone to myself with the curtains closed
If I open them, I see omly lonely streets and hear dark empty shouts
In Loserville

Back from an interview, another wasted journey
Though I summon up every bit of spark I have
I forget words, clever thoughts have died, my eyes are dull
I'm sure they can see in them
The Dead of Loserville

thirty-eight

Fictionary

When my stream of conciousness turns into a trickle
I find myself in a bit of a pickle
I turn to wine and I turn to beer
But they make me tired and feeling quite queer
I'd read a book but the words swim around
Or listen to music and in it I'd drown
My mind becomes sticky and stiff like a dumpling
My throat gets tight and dry with a lump in
And I'm supposed to write a thesis for a Masters Degree?
Why does this shit always happen to me??

I wish I could make up quotes and words
As easy as songs are made up by birds
Spin a line of authority
To make everybody look up to me
Become an expert unquestioned and proud
To speak and be listened to without being loud
With quiet confidence indifference I'd kill
And change peoples minds like a head-tripping pill
I'd tingle spines and goosepimple skin
And without noticable pressure all would give in

But my streams of conciousness reduce to a trickle
And my reasoning seems pathetic and fickle
I'd love to spin a flamboyant line
And all of the audience would be mine
But all the grace and finesse I lack
To make the greatest fiction seem a fact

thirty-seven

The Way We Use Words

In my room, in my location
I like listening to the radio
On my old clock radio that's nearly 30 years old
I like the men's voices joking around
Not too serious
The robust and the mellow
Somehow the shapes of the words
Are rounder and less spiky than spoken by women
And smooth and sweet as chocolate
The words are tasty and easy to digest
Not like the words outside my window
When people brake hard and shout Oi and Hey
Staring straight at each other but not wanting to be with them
Not like the people on the radio
Who dont look, cant see, the strangers on the other end
Of all the words they say

I find it hard
If I'm in a shop
I have to pick the words that fit
That are short and snappy but polite
And dont tangle up the other person
Said nicely with a lilt
Then I sit with fellow academics
And have to search for the most appropriate word
For the abstract, obscure and scribbly journeys of thought
How long is this piece of string, this strung together sentence?
One size does not fit all!

I'm a bit jealous of the radio presenters
Giving everyone what they want
Millions consuming words and feeling nicely full
Nothing too out of the ordinary, a one-sided conversation for all

thirty-six

7/7

It was a normal summers day in London
Just needed a drop of rain to keep the dust down
People got on buses and trains, just about cool enough
The mood was quiet, British bustling

Suddenly the world was ripped open
Scarlet drops and blue ribbons all over
Places I could not go, but peered at though
Grey and silent as graves

Conspiracy theorists have their own voices
The passengers ones have been silenced forever

thirty-five

Misses

When I was in Misses clothes
Just a 12, but sometimes a 10
In my 20's, I wanted to be Tank Girl
Big boots, short skirts, and Turquoise hair

Then I wanted to be girly
Because that was the thing to be
But dresses draped like potato sacks
And my hair wouldn't grow quick enough

Now I'm nearly 40
And my wardrobe's full of broken dreams
And unkept promises and disappointments
I miss being a Miss