it is morning,
dark and cold,
and your knees crack,
reminding you,
that you are getting old,
the alarm insists,
you get your ass ,
out of bed,
you are thirsty,
cobwebs in your head,
as you reach for the phone,
which is attached,
by wire to recharge,
fumbling blindly,
the phone falls to the floor,
the battery skids to the left,
the cover somewhere else,
between the two pairs of dirty socks,
and the dust and fallen hair,
sitting up in bed,
trying not to wake,
the sleeping muse,
looking at white ugly legs,
amazed to find,
another violet bruise,
plodding down stairs,
not feeling so good,
having a refreshing shower,
like every dirty boy,
should,
into the kitchen,
feeling a little better,
opening the fridge,
like an old love letter,
the yogurt is mouldy,
with some green pus,
oozing out the foil lid,
reaching for cereal,
adding the milk,
a foul smell explodes,
into your hairy nostrils,
on the last flakes of breakfast,
you have poured,
some vile sour milk,
we have bread though,
but we have no butter,
and the tea bags,
ran out last week,
the fruit juice was opened,
too long ago,
the start of your day,
is so bleak,
after eating,
a dry stale biscuit,
opting to get dressed,
maybe go to work,
try to get in on time,
so your boss,
doesn’t go berserk,
underwear draw empty,
what a surprise,
but you did do the washing,
last night of course,
all your underwear still wet,
except for the pair,
with large holes,
too late to cry,
they will do,
I suppose,
after choosing,
some odd socks,
and the same old stuff,
you wear for work,
time to kiss the muse goodbye,
and get your ass to work,
the car struggles to start,
but it does,
a good sign at last,
it is not raining today,
so you can drive,
seeing the road ahead,
must get the windscreen wipers,
mended today,
as your watch says you are late,
you forget an important fact,
zombie class 14 starts today,
and there are brainless children,
all over the sodding place,
and the traffic is jammed,
and your patience is lost,
you will be late for work,
and you will pay the cost,
hungry and angry,
and with a cold windy ass,
watching the little children,
turn up for class,
another great morning,
to be so alive,
another torment and suffering,
but somehow you survive,
gladly knowing,
it cannot get worse than this,
cannot wait to get home,
this evening,
to give the muse a kiss,
but I have 9 hours to kill,
and I will throttle all day,
this is the life,
I would not want it,
any other way!
┬ęDarren Hobson Sept 2014