WHERE CAN I GO?
Six o’clock Wednesday afternoon and what is there to do but sit, write poetry and wonder what became of this life
This life that seems trapped in this pitiful excuse for a town with no friends to speak off and no hope in sight
Today I texted three people I know and only got one reply and that said no, they were too busy to see me today
But from the other two, who I used to hold dear, not a word and I grow curious as to why that should be?
I really ain’t got a clue as to what to do about this situation except save up, get out and go someplace new
But where can I go? What can I do?
In this town and on my wage there is simply no way to comprehend
How I’ll end up saving enough to move back to London or any other place near people I know
So won’t I just be damning myself to another few years of moving someplace new just because it seems like the only move?
I’m not sure in this state of mind that would be the best thing to do so again I ask what I can do.
Move to Paris for a job in a bookshop? Not now, since the Front National and the rise in rents to something I can’t afford
Well then where? Sometimes I dream of just upping sticks and moving some place real cheap
Where I can write and work and have no interference from people who seem to conspire against me at every damn turn
Where a part-time job at a skint retail chain will allow me to live without some financial aid from this damn government
Where the people don’t hate me for reasons I cannot comprehend
So again I ask where I can go.
DRUNK, GOING TO THE PUB
Drunk all week and just arranged another for tonight
A quiet night down the pub is impossible for me
I’ll drink at the bar until I’m grateful that it’s just downhill
From any pub in town I just walk down the hill
So no matter where I am, how drunk I get I know I’ll make it as long as I keep my legs
The pub tonight is one where the last time I went some young little scummer hit me in the head
I hope he ain’t there tonight cos I’ve been drunk all week
And tonight he might get his rebuttable
THE BALLAD OF LITTLE SADIE
Sadie looks on,
Numbed by the shot she needs to perform
She stands in a body stocking from neck to toe
As she grips her leather jacket tight close
To stop her frail body from the coldness of the night,
Aged eighteen, she looks about thirty as her habit gets to a hundred a day
She’s only been at this for a short while but it’s already too late
Some girl she’d run into on a street corner
I can’t work without it, the elder sister did relate
And now she’s doing grams a day
She looks on curious, even whilst out of it
Who will it be next and what will they want?
Her pimp talks harshly with a couple of tough guys
She cowers in the corner hoping, beyond hope, they will not be her last.