Poetry, Uncategorized

POST NATAL DEPRESSION FOR MEN

So, lovely readers, this is a QUATERN.  What’s that? A sixteen line French form composed of four quatrains.  It has a refrain that is in a different place in each quatrain. The first line of stanza one is the second line of stanza two, third line of stanza three, and fourth line of stanza four. Strictly, there should be 8 syllables per line, but this time I’ve stuck to metre instead 🙂

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Ever since the baby was born

She hasn’t kissed him once,

Wallowing deep in self-pity and porn,

He flounders in the dumps.

 

She’s hardly looked his way

Ever since the baby was born

Will she make him stay?

Between freedom and them he’s torn.

 

No work and overdrawn,

She doesn’t care a bit,

Ever since the baby was born

His life has turned to shit.

 

Spends his days just watching telly

Feeling depressed and forlorn,

Drinking beer & scratching his belly

Ever since the baby was born.

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Poetry, Uncategorized

MY FRIDAY NIGHT

my friday night

7pm:

Although I look old and past it, right,

I still look forward to Friday night,

and trying to recreate the magic

(at my age, some would say it’s tragic)

of when a boy would try to kiss me,

left me feeling like a princess, see?

 

In my time I been called a slag,

my skirts are short, I dance round my bag,

inside there’s a couple of Durex Play

(best be prepared, if I get my way!),

my purse with this week’s benefit,

a Smirnoff mini, just for the hellavit,

 

and half a pack of Marlboro lights.

My legs are bare, I don’t need tights,

dimpled thighs will look OK

under a layer of San-Tro-Pay.

Badly bleached and sort-of grey

Hair held firm with cans of spray.

 

To my Nan I made an oath,

to show some leg or tit, not both,

Nor to date with more than one gusset,

remember my brains are my finest asset,

and classy girls, not too chav,

always ask for French Cab Sav.

 

Brains are good, but I’m afraid,

they don’t help you to get laid.

Made-up to trade-up –

Chucked-up then fucked-up –

this attention-seeking whore

will strut her stuff about the floor

 

11.30pm:

Off comes the nylon lon-jer-ray,

discarded, ripped, it’s had its day –

legs akimbo, what a sight,

the sickly orange urban light

makes her thinning hair seem blonder.

On the back seat of his Honda

 

the grunting of the spotty lad

makes her feel a little sad.

Granny wouldn’t like her style –

to be wanted for a while –

it’s not like asking for a lot –

anyway, it’s all I’ve got.

 

Later on, I’ll feel alright.

My boozy, floozy Friday night.

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