Here are your haiku horrorscopes for Halloween.
Sing to me your songs of sweet, sweet love,
and set your music afloat on the breeze.
Or write me a sonnet straight from the heart
and carve your words upon on an oak tree.
Or proclaim to me a constitution of love
and make your rules and principles clear.
Or if you don’t have time to write such a thing,
then whisper soft, hushed words in my ear.
Or scrawl something down on a post-it note
so you don’t need to think too hard.
Or if you’ve got a spare postage stamp,
you could always send a postcard.
Or maybe leave a message with my mum
(07823 666 403)
as you’ve not been in touch for nearly six years
and I’m worried you might be avoiding me.
We have been here before;
we who slouch
at formica tables
and fish adeptly in sea-green bowls
for cellophaned sweets
to the music of fizzy water.
We who drowse
in powerpointed twilight,
as time slides slowly past,
we restless slumberers,
fearful of break-outs
and the tyranny of role play.
We who doodle
on hotel-headed notepaper
whilst listening distractedly
to the distant hum
of the motorway
which leads to other places.
For we are
We who leave
money on the table
and grab at pendulous fruit
which hangs so low.
For we are the
We who wait
of the fifteen minute respite
offered in the form
of plated custard creams.
For we are the awayday
We who nurse
feelings of jealousy
towards marker pens
that run out
before we can.
For we are the awayday boarders.
We are the onboarded.
And this is the way the day ends
This is the way the day ends
This is the way the day ends
Not with a bang but a flipchart.
Reach out to me, reach out, reach out,
my calendar is up-to-date.
Let’s meet up and move the needle
(‘though I have a hard stop at eight).
Drill down with me, drill down, drill down,
under the spreadsheet we shall dive
to pluck at ripe, low hanging fruit
as we innovate and synergize.
Align with me, align, align,
explore our many moving parts.
Let us think outside of the box,
capture results on your flip charts.
Deploy with me, deploy, deploy,
assets not inconsiderable.
Leverage them along the way
to achieve our core deliverable.
was a one song wonder.
Don’t know whether
you made another.
NME single of the week.
It put the bubble
in my squeak
and the snap
and crackle in my pop.
Twelve weeks solid
I did not stop
the awkward angles
of what it’s like
to be fifteen.
I kept the sleeve
wore a duffle coat
all that summer.
I hear you became
We stand in stoic silence,
peering through perspex panels
for the bus with our number on it.
All shelters in time are visited
and we, waiting, occupy ourselves
with a thousand tiny distractions
until we see it nose slowly
around the corner, and greet it,
not with welcome surprise
but with wretched relief
and, as we feel the press of coins
in clammy palms, we wonder
whether this is a poem
about buses and bus shelters at all
or, rather, one about life and death
because that’s the kind of thing
that poets write about
and we climb aboard anyway
as it is warm inside
and this one has free wi-fi.
I saw gig.
like a man possessed
one fevered Saturday night.
He gave me
the heebie beegees
and I left the floor in fright.
Some blamed it
on the Boogieman
but it was a John Travoltageist.