Underpass

We get off the tube, side by side, her dog leading her forward as her eyes stick to the floor. But she's not blind, just downtrodden. This is the woman who waits for me each night, hand out cupped requesting coppers and change hoping this time will be different. This time is not different. It's a thing to see her coming from the underground, like she's commuting at nine fifteen in the evening. Well, everyone's got to come from somewhere I guess.

The Quitters

I’ve broken up
You can tell, can’t you?
I’ve got the look of the broken-hearted
That green, burger king lettuce fresh look
My feet itch
These itchy, twitchy restless feet
Maybe I should take up yoga?
Do we have any committed in tonight?
What about the broken and bittered?
I much prefer you guys,
To stick with it no matter how sick it’s making you
I salute that.
Would you like to know how I left?
Would you like my legal advice?
Here it is:
Don’t think about it.
Dwell not on that pillow to your left
Lying there unrequited
In need of a mint
As the two of you stare spent, face to face in the eiderdown
Don’t think about that
Avoid people who hope
Avoid people who look like they hope
Avoid people who look fool enough to hope
Avoid people.

Putting the IT in BITCH

All I.T. men want to be in Top Gun. Fact. Go into a room and ask to be introduced. As the roll is called you'll witness each and every one of them fight the urge to salute. Especially the Linux guys. In I.T. servers don't break; they go down. On MSN they've all got nicknames like SweatDog, or HangPuppy, they refuse to answer their phones unless they're wearing a headset, and the only reason they don't take showers together is because I.T. guys DON'T take showers. I say we throw them on a volleyball court and see what happens. Although it would have to be an indoor court as the only way to get a techie to a beach is to tell him the sea drive is corrupt.

Ink Blot

As I leave the club the bouncer stamps my hand so hard he almost snaps my bones. Fuck, I say. A year ago I'd have kept this to myself. Tonight I say Fuck. He looks at me with dead eyes blazing. What? he shrugs. I look right back in his eyes, wave my pretty little fingers at him and with a cool, steady voice say, Watch the Talent!

If it wasn't for those pesky kids

Kids change everything. You spend your whole life maturing, developing, gaining insight and understanding to such a zen-like level, that you can almost, almost, pick up an Argos catalogue without wanting anything. And then the little ego monsters arrive. Consume, consume, they use you and consume. Cake, toys, wallpaper, shoes, filing cabinets, novelty teapots, glasses, whatever they lay their little eyes on they want. Nothing sums up a child more than the enjoyment they get from watching fireworks; millions of pounds going up in smoke as tiny little chuckle brothers watch the world burn. As a child I was like this, but so much worse. If we needed a new lawnmower or fridge I'd become obsessed. I'd become the world's greatest knowledge, and nothing but the best was permissible. Who cares if our garden was the size of a flowerbox? We had to get a lawnmower with striping technology or I was going on hunger strike. What a pain in the ass I must have been. I've come a long way since those days. I can almost shop in Morrison's. Let's hope my kids are fast learners.

Cheap Seats

When you're unaccompanied the arm rest is all well and good. Supportive, relaxing, it's like a cheaper version of my therapist. But as soon as you get company the good times are over. That arm rest turns into neutral air space. Any elbows in that locality is nothing short of an infringement. I'm tired of squeezing myself into pencil formation just because Jonny-crow-arms has decided he needs to read the paper. I say we build compartments, seat to ceiling. That way everyone would keep themselves to themselves and possibly feel strangely at home. Almost as if they were sitting on the toilet.

Feather Weight

On the walk to work a feather floats by my feet. The wind nudging it along with an amicable breeze. The faster I walk, the more breezily it keeps pace until an errant gust wafts it into my path. I stamp it into some gum on the pavement. I stop dead, but blackened and captive it remains. 

At the gig I'm all over the place. I drop the cards for the first time in nine months. Instead of the four of diamonds, I find the three. Distracted I try to shake my head clear, but I can't lose that sense of nagging at my medulla. I leave a poor show with the morning's events still fresh in my mind.

It's raining when I leave the station for the short walk home. My hands are in my pocket, my collar turned up. But as I draw level with the bridge something slows my walk. A brilliant speck of white, fluttering as footsteps pass it. The closer I get it's unmistakable, the rain washing the filth from my feather, waiting patiently for my return. I lift it from the gum, picking the sticky traces off, not caring who's mouth it's been in. When I get home I set it on my shelf. I brush my teeth, wash the dishes, arrange the couch. I make sure it's still there. I turn the light off and go to sleep, and for the first time in three weeks, I sleep peacefully.

Spinal Tap Copy Cat

The volume on the BBC iPlayer goes up to eleven...