Mike in Amarillo

It’s been a while since my last post, whether poetry, prose or blog. Sorry about that. Things have been hectic what with work and everything, so I haven’t had the time or energy to write. Somehow, I will find it though!

The job is going very well indeed. I am a fishmonger at Wm Morrisons in St. Albans, and loving every second. Well, I say loving. I am finding every second enjoyable enough, considering it is work, and I would rather be elsewhere!

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We’re hitting the town tonight.
Like most nights.
Me and my friends.
Have a few drinks,
have a few laughs,
maybe a little dance.
When we get to the club
the fun starts here.
We’re all single,
pretty good looking
and very, very available.
Some of us have talent.
Me?
Not a chance.
I can’t talk.
Frozen.
Intimidated.
Embarrassed.
Rejected.
Every single time.
No fun for me.

My friends.
That’s a different story.
Smooth.
Charming.
Charismatic.
The package.
I dance alone,
my friends with
new friends.

Fifth wheel.
That’s me.
I drink alone.
I dance alone.
I walk the walk
and balk the talk.

A lonely night
As usual.
Nothing left to do.
Drink another drink.

©2008 Michael James Farrar

Sorry guys, been very busy with work these last few days, so I’ve not had time to get anything up for Monday morning. I’ve got a day off on Tuesday though, so something is bound to come up then…

There was a man named Matthew Drumham. He had lived in the village of Stanland, in northern Lancashire for three years, ever since he left Manchester for some peace and quiet. He was around forty years of age, average height, fair haired and always a little on edge. Matthew Drumham was a worrier. He worried about children, he worried about adults, but most of all, he worried about US presidents and what their real contribution to society was. He worked in the local post office, which, he always told his friends, was a lot less interesting than they thought. It wasn’t; most of his friends were accountants and, unbeknownst to Matthew, often dreamt of the excitement of sorting mail.

Matthew was the sort of person who liked his life rather mundane. He never did anything out of the ordinary, and certainly never intended to. “Just a cup of tea for me, thanks,” he always said at parties, on those rare occasions he was invited. When he got home from work every day, Matthew spent hours meticulously preparing dinner, before watching some television whilst eating and then trudging to bed. Matthew was not one to ask for trouble or even think of it. So it was quite a shock when the body bag arrived on his doorstep one Monday morning, complete with a body inside.

©2008 Michael James Farrar

I looked the table up and down. The position of the 8 ball over my target pocket made things very difficult for me. I ran my hand up and down the cue, feeling every last neatly varnished grain of the wood, and praying. I knew the significance of this game and what was at stake here. This cue was all I had. The stick of wood in my hand, that I’d owned since I was a teenager was all that could help me now. My opponents face was fixed in a grimace, revealing nothing of the joy within. I was on the ropes. One more slip, and I was done for.

©2008 Michael James Farrar

I’ve got a job! At last, about sodding time. I’m going to be working on the fish counter at Morrisons supermarket, starting on Tuesday. It’s great, I’ll be learning a trade (ie. gutting fish etc.) and finally earning some money. Whooo!

The small boy sat by the lake under the cool evening sun. The smell of freshly cut grass danced on the breeze.

The boys hair was not it’s usual spiky self, but patted down flat in a lazy fashion on his head. A single, lonely tear rolled down his cheek, settling on his chin before he wiped it off, anxious to hide it from the approaching crowd. Amongst the crowd were the boys parents, his disdain for whom was clear. He got up and moved lethargically to the next bench along, always remaining just far enough ahead of the crowd. The boy slouched in his seat, his shoulders weighed down by the air that surrounded him. As the crowd caught up, he put his head in his hands.

©2008 Michael James Farrar

For those of you expecting a poem today… tough titty, I’m busy dying. I’ve got a weird combination of a fever and a flu. Really sucks. It does mean that my job hunt has been set back a few days, which is the most annoying thing. And that I haven’t got the energy or the awake-enough mind to write. See, even my grammar’s gone to pot. Gaaah.

Other news? Can’t think of any. Apart from several good nights out, not a lot has happened really. Ah well. I should have a poem up on Friday, or, if you’re lucky, I might put a story up instead!

The flames lick my knees.
I walk the path with ease.
She does not look pleased.

The path that I’m on
is simply a con.
She knows I’ve done wrong.

So she lifted the lid.
It flew so I hid.
She knows what I did.

I don’t.

©2008 Michael James Farrar

My country is led by a Scot.
He’s not got it right,
The Scot should watch his lot.

The economy used to be hot
now money is too tight.
My country is led by a Scot.

My country’s lost the plot
and the party’s not too bright.
The Scot should watch his lot.

The alternative smoked pot,
not a pretty sight
so still my country is led by a Scot.

Taxes rise each year on the dot,
they’ll never hit maximum height.
The Scot should watch his lot.

Still, at least he’s got his yacht
which simply highlights our plight.
My country is led by a Scot.
The Scot should watch his lot.

©2008 Michael James Farrar