The Dinner Ladies in the Chronic Canteen

"The dinner ladies in the chronic canteen
serve up portions; big, small and green.
They dole out rations of little yellow pills
and smartie-count to pay the bills"

Privy to knowledge that would make others squirm
We know how to be patient and when to be firm.
We sweat in the Summer and freeze in the Winter
but here is darkly comic. It's Irvine Welsh, not Pinter.
Our own peculiarities seem normal by comparison
to our regulars who haunt the place with dead eyes and abandonment.
Our unbecoming uniforms are shabby at their best
(and as there's nothing nice to say, I won't describe the rest).

"The dinner ladies in the chronic canteen
serve up portions; big, small and green.
They dole out rations of little yellow pills
and smartie-count to pay the bills".

For each and every script we cross, the most we can is done.
And amidst abuse, disease and death, that "thank you" is hard won.
We work to bones day in, day out and wake at four in the morning
from drug addled dreams from incidental exposure and professional doubts a-gnawing.
We face each day with optimism and a damn-strong caffiene crutch
to kick those clouding dreams away and whimsy into touch.
When an error costs a life we can't afford to drift along.
This is an "elementary service job"?
You couldn't be more wrong.

"The dinner ladies in the chronic canteen
serve up portions; big, small and green.
They dole out rations of little yellow pills
and smartie-count to pay the bills".

Eviscerator of Lions

Forever fancy-dressed
In costumes that hide in plain view.
Self-betraying underachiever
Charges forward with a smile on her face.
Sleeps a little. Dreams a lot.
Gazing from above without looking down.
Magnificent manipulative marbles.
A swift kick ensures compliance.
From afar she is elegant, alien, inscrutable.
From aside she is patchworked oversized body parts.
Allow her to run and she thrives.
In a limited pool she is surplus.
And culled.

A Beautiful Mind

As older I grow, the more that I know
and learnings I should share.
A pretty young face and adventurous tastes
can lead you anywhere.
But you must learn to say no. You reap what you sow
and the world is full of sharks.
When your looks start to fade and you can't on them trade
and you know you know nothing of quarks.
By all means enjoy the power of coy-
exploitation cuts both ways-
but use your brain more, it's your future for sure
and beauty is often a phase.
Learn a language, a trade, your brain marinade
in knowledge occid- and oriental,
so when you're short on coffers you've plenty of offers.
You'll be useful, not just ornamental.

Textured Echoes

I whisper words of long lost loves
and could-have-beens and never-was
and remind myself of times there were
when She was alive and I was her.

"Oh woe is me, stuck in a tree, away from thee, my tripadee"

When I received messages, letters and texts
and my wandering loins could assent or object.
When make up would sweat-run and clothing I'd doff.
Dancing and dancing in basements and lofts.

"I'm very, very, very, very close to loving you. All I need is your permission."

Wandering willful unburdened and faithless.
Thinner and fitter and sharper and shameless.
Giving false names and numbers to all the unchosen
and hickies and mono to the favoured unspoken.

"You could  never be a dog to me. Not something to be possessed but something wild that makes you grateful for the time you give me."

And though old echoes lift the curve when recalled to banish glum me,
None resonate with half the verve of
"I love you so much, Mummy".