suggestion

i am too fragile to be around you
too easily disturbed
by brittle trite expressions
and kinetic overload
sharp elbows constant
movement not to mention the noise
the constant constant talking
suggestion crudely poised
to enter any sentence at any given
time - let me make my mind up
it’s mine it’s mine it’s mine

writing poems

So I sit here
writing poems,
using maths

Bringing order
to emotion,
counting words

And if someone
doesn't get it,
cannot see

It's just they don't
get poetry,
flow, or me.

the moribund middle class blues

(this poem is brought to you by iambic tetrameter)

the moribund middle classes
are making little lists of all
the things they have and everything
they’ve missed “oh dear what have we missed?”

now they want to own the cities
they want to own the council flats
schools for their own little people
playtime with smoothies, yoga mats

they pout and shout and stamp their feet
no money left, they fear the chop
the social ladder kicked away
no more room nearly at the top

“might have to sack the nanny, love”
so they’re losing benefits too
along with the right to feel smug
or better placed than me and you

we all now face redundancy
all face inflation and despair
when looking around for comfort
they're finding it's no longer there

their boss, their broker, their system
have all forgotten to play fair
the cracks are showing in the dream
it’s called designer-wear and tear.