Things are very hard these days.
Pull pint, double shot, no time.
Twenty minutes to finally breathe again.
Can't make plans so don't look.
A relationship between personality and poetry?
I do prefer poetry to people.
(Really, pretty much to anything else.)
Gonna miss you when you're gone.
A field mouse disturbs the grass.
Climbing over the gap-toothed style.
There are never any happy endings.
There are always some happy endings.
Where did all the poetry go?
Thursday, 6 June 2019
Regulars
There are a few things I like when it comes to my work. Overall, it's exhausting and mind-numbing but in some ways it's beneficial to be ground down and anaesthetised. But what I like the most is recognising people who visit regularly and remembering their drink orders.
There's a guy with white hair who looks like a cartoon character and drinks London Pride and works just upstairs from the Foyles where I once worked, and says that he hates it due to a culture of nepotism and 'cronyism' and talked with me about the power of social influence on one slow evening.
There's a wine connoseur who drinks ESB ale in a tankard and tells me about his visits to wine tastings and port tastings and whiskey tastings and God knows what else, and who fiddles with his phone and eventually falls asleep, without fail, over his dish of pork scratchings, but not before inviting me to accompany him to one of his many beverage tastings and I am too busy.
There's a guy who pops in early afternoon and always has the exact change for a pint of Guinness, who then disappears and reimerges with another order, who grabbed me to the backdrop of Save The Last Dance For Me and we danced together while my boss clapped, inebriated as she usually is.
There's an incredibly effeminate customer whose name is David and comes in every day, who drinks chardonnay with three ice cubes and stays for many hours, way past closing time, applying his make up while looking at himself in the mirrored wall.
There's an attractive man with a beard who wears pressed shirts and drinks lager, standing outside with friends or strangers to smoke, and who I would like very much to kiss, and when I let slip to my manager that I thought he was good-looking he made fun of me and told me my boyfriend would be jealous.
There's a woman who has a bespoke drink devised of vodka and a very small amount of orange juice with ice and a straw, who was there the other day at midday and again in the evening until midnight, but who won my affection despite her lingering after the last bell because she gave compliments about me to my boss.
There are two men in creased suits during after-work hours, one of whom looks a lot like an ex-boyfriend of mine and drinks Seafarer's Ale, who always rack up an expensive tab and want receipts so I wonder who is paying.
There is another man in a suit who always attends with a group of other men in suits and who showed me his phone, saying, 'Look who I had lunch with!', to which I replied, 'Nigel Farage!' and went into a brief soliloquy about his politics before kicking myself because I realised that they were actually friends.
There is another man in a suit who used to do what most people would gauge as flirting but has since given up and orders Guinness and asks for huge amount of cashback but mostly stays outside with Heineken Top, who is named after his drink order and because he's so tall he's always at the top, and always asks for a lager with a top, and during my first week I stupidly put soda water in the lager instead of lemonade.
There is a man who always sits in the same spot at the bar and slowly drinks his lager and occasionally asks me for help with the Evening Standard crossword.
There is another man whose voice gives me nightmares and who stands at the entrance to the bar so I keep having to squeeze past him and each time he says, 'Hi Daisy!' in a very strange squeaking voice, which I used to think was a joke but now realise is his real voice.
There is an Italian guy called Marco who had a birthday party the other day and gave me a slice of cake and many hugs and made my heart warm.
There is a couple- a long-haired blonde and man in a blazer- who come in and stay for hours until they are both more than tipsy and they are kissing and cuddling, and she drinks wine and he drinks lager, who had a conversation about becoming boyfriend and girlfriend on official terms, which I picked up from eavesdropping, but which worried me because I could have sworn I saw her with someone else a few weeks ago and when my manager and I were gossiping about them and I mentioned this, he said, 'I like her style.'
There is an attractive close-shaven man who drinks Amstel and sits alone, scribbling in a notebook, and when I asked him what he was focused on told me that he's drawing jellyfish because he is making illustrations for his friend's writing, so I have decided that I would like to be his friend.
There's a guy with white hair who looks like a cartoon character and drinks London Pride and works just upstairs from the Foyles where I once worked, and says that he hates it due to a culture of nepotism and 'cronyism' and talked with me about the power of social influence on one slow evening.
There's a wine connoseur who drinks ESB ale in a tankard and tells me about his visits to wine tastings and port tastings and whiskey tastings and God knows what else, and who fiddles with his phone and eventually falls asleep, without fail, over his dish of pork scratchings, but not before inviting me to accompany him to one of his many beverage tastings and I am too busy.
There's a guy who pops in early afternoon and always has the exact change for a pint of Guinness, who then disappears and reimerges with another order, who grabbed me to the backdrop of Save The Last Dance For Me and we danced together while my boss clapped, inebriated as she usually is.
There's an incredibly effeminate customer whose name is David and comes in every day, who drinks chardonnay with three ice cubes and stays for many hours, way past closing time, applying his make up while looking at himself in the mirrored wall.
There's an attractive man with a beard who wears pressed shirts and drinks lager, standing outside with friends or strangers to smoke, and who I would like very much to kiss, and when I let slip to my manager that I thought he was good-looking he made fun of me and told me my boyfriend would be jealous.
There's a woman who has a bespoke drink devised of vodka and a very small amount of orange juice with ice and a straw, who was there the other day at midday and again in the evening until midnight, but who won my affection despite her lingering after the last bell because she gave compliments about me to my boss.
There are two men in creased suits during after-work hours, one of whom looks a lot like an ex-boyfriend of mine and drinks Seafarer's Ale, who always rack up an expensive tab and want receipts so I wonder who is paying.
There is another man in a suit who always attends with a group of other men in suits and who showed me his phone, saying, 'Look who I had lunch with!', to which I replied, 'Nigel Farage!' and went into a brief soliloquy about his politics before kicking myself because I realised that they were actually friends.
There is another man in a suit who used to do what most people would gauge as flirting but has since given up and orders Guinness and asks for huge amount of cashback but mostly stays outside with Heineken Top, who is named after his drink order and because he's so tall he's always at the top, and always asks for a lager with a top, and during my first week I stupidly put soda water in the lager instead of lemonade.
There is a man who always sits in the same spot at the bar and slowly drinks his lager and occasionally asks me for help with the Evening Standard crossword.
There is another man whose voice gives me nightmares and who stands at the entrance to the bar so I keep having to squeeze past him and each time he says, 'Hi Daisy!' in a very strange squeaking voice, which I used to think was a joke but now realise is his real voice.
There is an Italian guy called Marco who had a birthday party the other day and gave me a slice of cake and many hugs and made my heart warm.
There is a couple- a long-haired blonde and man in a blazer- who come in and stay for hours until they are both more than tipsy and they are kissing and cuddling, and she drinks wine and he drinks lager, who had a conversation about becoming boyfriend and girlfriend on official terms, which I picked up from eavesdropping, but which worried me because I could have sworn I saw her with someone else a few weeks ago and when my manager and I were gossiping about them and I mentioned this, he said, 'I like her style.'
There is an attractive close-shaven man who drinks Amstel and sits alone, scribbling in a notebook, and when I asked him what he was focused on told me that he's drawing jellyfish because he is making illustrations for his friend's writing, so I have decided that I would like to be his friend.
Wednesday, 5 June 2019
May Hill
I’m with you on May Hill where bedsheets smell like tea and milk
I’m with you on May Hill where time stands still as if in a snow globe.
I’m with you on May Hill where I learnt the names of flowers.
I’m with you on May Hill where I waited for the morning birds.
I’m with you on May Hill where I am sorry I lost my mind.
I’m with you on May Hill where my grandfather died in his bed.
I’m with you on May Hill where all the stories began.
I’m with you on May Hill where quiet is heavier than sound but slower.
I’m with you on May Hill where what is thrown away burns in the garden.
I’m with you on May Hill where Christmas is redder and greener.
I’m with you on May Hill where green grow the rushes, oh.
I’m with you on May Hill where I first heard a lullaby.
I’m with you on May Hill where my grandmother broke a leg.
I’m with you on May Hill where I learnt to sing.
I’m with you on May Hill where we go out walking to Ella and back again.
I’m with you on May Hill where time stands still as if in a snow globe.
I’m with you on May Hill where I learnt the names of flowers.
I’m with you on May Hill where I waited for the morning birds.
I’m with you on May Hill where I am sorry I lost my mind.
I’m with you on May Hill where my grandfather died in his bed.
I’m with you on May Hill where all the stories began.
I’m with you on May Hill where quiet is heavier than sound but slower.
I’m with you on May Hill where what is thrown away burns in the garden.
I’m with you on May Hill where Christmas is redder and greener.
I’m with you on May Hill where green grow the rushes, oh.
I’m with you on May Hill where I first heard a lullaby.
I’m with you on May Hill where my grandmother broke a leg.
I’m with you on May Hill where I learnt to sing.
I’m with you on May Hill where we go out walking to Ella and back again.
Time
Time is an elastic band.
Time is a flat circle.
Time is precious, but truth more precious than time.
Time is item reorganised.
Time is too slow for those who wait.
Time is a human construct.
Time is too swift for those who fear.
Time is a frame for the masterpiece of experience.
Time is too long for those who grieve.
Time is a medicine.
Time is too short for those who rejoice.
Time is not on my side.
Time is the most precious element of human existence.
Time is our afternoons measured out in coffee spoons.
Time is more valuable than money.
Time is the sound of new leaves turning over.
Time is the most undefinable and yet paradoxical of things.
Time is a tapestry that weaves itself again and again.
Time is trying to put a limit on infinity.
Time is so that everything doesn’t happen at once.
Time is unkind.
Time is an illusion.
Time is all we have.
Time is the longest distance between two places.
Time is a game played beautifully by children.
Time is all your yesterdays and all your tomorrows.
Time is what we want most, but what we use worst.
Time is all it takes.
Time is taking it all.
Time is catching up to you.
Time is whether you want it to be or not.
Time is treasured, wasted, spent and bought.
Time is a greedy thing.
Time is stolen by punctuality.
Time is a slippery thing.
Time is mostly spent being dead.
Time is there to prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet.
Time is not mine to take.
Time is not mine to give.
Time is in the tide.
Time is just a point of reference.
Time is not going to explain.
Time is clinging to me like cat hair.
Time is without meaning.
Time is the meaning.
Time is mine and it’s worthless.
Time is never on my side.
Time is nothing.
Time is all.
Time is a flat circle.
Time is precious, but truth more precious than time.
Time is item reorganised.
Time is too slow for those who wait.
Time is a human construct.
Time is too swift for those who fear.
Time is a frame for the masterpiece of experience.
Time is too long for those who grieve.
Time is a medicine.
Time is too short for those who rejoice.
Time is not on my side.
Time is the most precious element of human existence.
Time is our afternoons measured out in coffee spoons.
Time is more valuable than money.
Time is the sound of new leaves turning over.
Time is the most undefinable and yet paradoxical of things.
Time is a tapestry that weaves itself again and again.
Time is trying to put a limit on infinity.
Time is so that everything doesn’t happen at once.
Time is unkind.
Time is an illusion.
Time is all we have.
Time is the longest distance between two places.
Time is a game played beautifully by children.
Time is all your yesterdays and all your tomorrows.
Time is what we want most, but what we use worst.
Time is all it takes.
Time is taking it all.
Time is catching up to you.
Time is whether you want it to be or not.
Time is treasured, wasted, spent and bought.
Time is a greedy thing.
Time is stolen by punctuality.
Time is a slippery thing.
Time is mostly spent being dead.
Time is there to prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet.
Time is not mine to take.
Time is not mine to give.
Time is in the tide.
Time is just a point of reference.
Time is not going to explain.
Time is clinging to me like cat hair.
Time is without meaning.
Time is the meaning.
Time is mine and it’s worthless.
Time is never on my side.
Time is nothing.
Time is all.
How many?
How many years before the fire? How many years still looking up at the sky at night and seeing nothing but black? How many years of imagining a mirror up there above you, something to gaze into all wide-eyed to see something that looks just like you staring back, to see creatures who have spent all the days in their lives looking up wondering whether someone else is out there? How many minutes spent hoping that maybe we aren't alone at all? How many hours did we dedicate to dreaming up these people, dressing them up in bodies like ours and lives like ours and words like ours, in names that fit comfortably around our tongues and then giving them our hands to shake? How many days did we wait for them to give a reply? How many times did we send out exploratory ships and crews on voyages into the big endless blue, navigating between the stars using a tape measure, looking for some small hint that there are others out there too? How many times will we come back, shaking our heads in disappointment but our eyes glimmering with resolve because we are not giving up yet? How many seconds will we waste away, raking through the galaxies, only to prove that we are not alone out there? Surely we are not alone out there.
Unfinished jigsaw
I am trying to learn over again lessons in love,
to teach myself how to be alone, without being
lost but I have never known how to be beautiful--
and I do not live anywhere but the room where
I sleep is so crammed with empty boxes and
all those empty corners I could build a nest in.
If I had the flesh for it and the energy for it
I could grow wings to pull myself up and then
fight a war with gravity and someday I'd win.
I could grow up if it weren't for a gap in the bed
that I am too small for and the gaps in memory
I am too big for, and for the emptiness of space.
Alone is a state of mind, in and out and between
and it's a place, a strange place I am and I'm not
and I've been here before but back then I didn't
notice the cold.
to teach myself how to be alone, without being
lost but I have never known how to be beautiful--
and I do not live anywhere but the room where
I sleep is so crammed with empty boxes and
all those empty corners I could build a nest in.
If I had the flesh for it and the energy for it
I could grow wings to pull myself up and then
fight a war with gravity and someday I'd win.
I could grow up if it weren't for a gap in the bed
that I am too small for and the gaps in memory
I am too big for, and for the emptiness of space.
Alone is a state of mind, in and out and between
and it's a place, a strange place I am and I'm not
and I've been here before but back then I didn't
notice the cold.
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