Diazepam and Pam from Accounts

i am ill.

sick to my stomach
with weekend excess

a bottom on fire,
a mouth
in distress

hunched
over my desk
out of breath,
sipping coffee that
tastes like rancid banoffee
trying to stay awake
until my lunch break

the phone,
shrill and annoying
is doing its best
to kill me

as
emails conspire
against me,
colleagues dance
around me
spinning tales of
jolly weekend japes

I imagine them
hung, drawn and quartered,
their jolly heads on spikes
in a ‘told you so row’ outside HR

I’m tempted to borrow
some vicodin
from Lou in R&D
or some diazepam
from Pam in accounts
or perhaps both,
washed down
with copious amounts
of pineapple juice
(someone else’s, of course)

but, for now
I’ll be invisible,
as quiet as a mouse
tough out the day
then home to my house
where I’ll pour a glass
of the finest Shiraz,
tuck into a tub of
creamy Haagen Daz.

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oeufs en cocotte and decadence

gosh.

it’s all so obvious now.
the candy in my brain is
a precursor for diabetes.

“if only”

ah.

I somehow feel deflated
yet somehow elated and as
I open up another bottle,
twisting off the cap…

“what if it’s corked?”

then I’ll watch porntube
and crochet elastic knitwear.

“interesting”

it’s all children’s tv
and croque-en-bouche…
a tower of power and
a golden shower.

“VERY interesting. and somewhat sad”

totally. totes adorbs.
oeufs en cocotte
would be better.
healthier.
less sugar.

“ah.
pass the coke”

really?
what about a celery stick
with a flamboyant humus dip?

“celery? really?”

it was the best
i could do
in the time.

“well. it’s not good enough!”

and we’ve wasted
so many eggs.

“that is inexcusable”

yes. it is.

(but decadent)

the cyclist and the squirrel

sat on the river bank,
tittering to myself
at the expected rhyme,
i quickly reached the conclusion
that the view wasn’t as exciting
as i was expecting,
or expecting to recall,
from the time i was there before,
when the vista, much greener
and cleaner, stuck pins in my eyes.

never mind.

but it was bloody cold.
nipple hardening cold.
(manly nipple hardening)

a grey squirrel scurried by,
bouncing over dead leaves
without a single care in the world,
only stopping to scratch
an unscratchable itch
and blatantly, nervously stare
at this human intruder
(he vaguely recalled)
with his telephoto lens
and ageing, greying hair.

i heard the river yawn
as the sky darkened and
filled with fat, soft raindrops.
she had seen it all before.
the season’s dullard games.
the sounds of season’s change.

from a nearby path i heard
a laugh, then a clatter and
a crunch of metal on concrete
as a wretched show off cyclist
went head over tits in the rain.

i thought i heard the river laugh too.

i walked up the muddy bank,
slipping on dank detritus,
grasping lanky windswept branches
like a hill walker with walking poles.

“are you ok?” i asked the unfortunate
boing-boing helly hansen prat
(who by this time was sat in a daze
amidst a flurry of still rotating wheels
and knock-off cycling carnage)

he mumbled something about it not
being his fault. “stupid bloody bike!”

i took a couple of snaps of his mishap,
which he wasn’t really bothered about
(the snapping that is, not the mishap)
then i decided that the cold and the rain
called for a stiff drink and a warm up.

just as i was setting to leave
i felt something tug my leg
and looking down saw a squirrel with
an inquisitive squirrel-like frown

“is he Ok?” said the squirrel.

“sure” i replied “ask him yourself”

“i would but he doesn’t speak squirrel”

and with that we said our goodbyes
(in squirrel of course)
i to the pub
he to his
scampering
and climbing
and scratching.

as for the hapless
helly hansen cyclist.

i never saw him again.