As a treat for Wasteland readers (I use the term very loosely), here's a "festive" poem before I sign off and stop blogging until the New Year. Contrary to the poem's sentiments, I'm not entirely opposed to Christmas - I love the way in which it oftens brings family and friends closer together, and how a time for giving and receiving is beneficial in ways far beyond the material. It is, as with many things, a wonderful celebration that has sadly been misappropriated and consequently misguided by consumerism. And Cliff Richard. But enough complaining, and enough of the obvious. This poetic snippet of semi-fact semi-fiction comes with best wishes for the festive period, and for a happy and successful 2008.
Under Pressure
I remember that night
as if I were knocking back pints
in the Frog and Parrot now –
telling me how your tosser
of a boss had laid you off
for reasons as unclear
as my buying a piss-weak
pint of Carling
instead of some decent, local beer.
Both of us in the mood to get trashed –
you for the obvious, me for my festive
and utterly pathetic
melancholic afflictions
(it is totally down to my character
but I still blame the holiday jingles)
and so, perhaps unsurprisingly,
when I come, after five or so rounds,
to put some jukebox music on
I can’t bear the thought
of John and Yoko,
Wizzard, Slade or even Mike Oldfield,
so I plump for Freddie and Queen’s best;
an altruistic act I accept as we
pour over the wine list.
Why can’t we give ourselves
one more chance?
Why can’t we give love
that one more chance?
This is our last dance.
This is ourselves.
