written by: Nobby66
While it seems all and sundry care-freely frolic in sun-cream beams,
scoffing giant jammed scones, piled high with Devon’s cream,
perfectly perched outside Laura Ashley chintz tea rooms,
their manicured, perfumed pinkies raised, salute gossip with Earl Grey ...I meanly lean
on a broken lamppost, hoping for a smile from Lily Marlene,
a shot or a hit to temp-ease the brain pain.
Darkly, permanently followed by a humourless cumulus
loathingly latched, hovering above my constricted, inflicted mind,
a smouldering misty mass precipitously prepares
to immediately piss on any brightish spark,
constructed by a serial no-mark.
Hope deserted my tawdry cobbled corner where once Formby crooned.
and lads for a laugh dropped their Levi’s and mooned
at passing coaches goin’ up the ‘Pool.
Now I am nobody’s fool or tool,
but mine own,
reaping the crop of rotting seeds sown.
‘Closed’ ...cerebral confidence centre redirects
to the receptor room marked ‘Self Worth – Knock & Enter.’
Hesitance freezes...I don’t deserve to go in.
A psychologist measured my thoughts from one to ten
promised to help me find the keys and then...
listened...As I slowly sank within the clinical chair
she answered her phone as if I wasn’t there...
Felt like tearing her barnet till she’d got no hair.
‘Work out that anger by punching a pillow?’
‘We’re not talkin’ minor peccadilloes!’
After two years there’s one broken minded bolt padlock to go...
Open it now! Push it!..Gung-ho!..
Behind that door... an achievement rack, full of zeros,
colourful shots of those who never wanted to know
waving their ‘Thank God he’s gone!’ Cheerio.
A dirty laundry black hole tempts in a corner,
sobering shute leads down via a hundred self-cuts
frowned upon by sneering dials, spat tut-tuts,
straight back to clawed anxiety in the embarrassment cellar...
Still ruled over by my taunting ‘Owd fella.’
Turn to my ‘Solutions’ Welsh dresser, cobwebbed and wood-wormed
she heaves up cold turkey snaps, records of failed de-tox raps,
she heaves under weight of cased escapee Vodka, spent joints,
packets and bags of scores dealt at knifepoint.
Spilling pilled drawers divulging torrents of tablets when pulled..Bar one...
A yellow-black sealed cranny remains...on the bottom line. ‘Open in Emergency.’
Ripped off the tape for sanity, urgently…
to reveal an Acme ‘Do Us All s Favour Home Noose Kit.’...
...and the sound of canned guffaws and sarcastic wit....
The Joker squawks...
‘You might as well... Who gives a shit!’
My foot nudges the heavy black dog from slumber-snores
under the sign ‘Depression- Cul-de-sac.’
Always there. Walked with him, a long way back.
An extension built to my storeroom of guilt
the bamboozled one is ram-packed to the hilt,
turn on the lock and memories swamp
vilified, judged, heartbroken, stomped.
Drop the leash, run, run...
to the brilliant light at corridors end
the portal is open, there must be one friend?
to rescue me from a toxic mind
push on the door and see what I find...
from this torturous life I must resign.
There’s a silver gate manned by St Pete
and a lad called Jesus is washing my feet,
‘Come on in my son I’ll show you the way
your jammed scones and cream are on their way.'
Reside in the Dark Kingdom of Lancashire, England.