obligation ii

today i made

a lovely little loaf.

am i a valid toiler?

instead of,

or as well as,

a poetry mine despoiler?

have my met my

productivity minimum

am i entitled to a break yet?

i posit that if workers suffer

ceo’s should go to jail

follow the money to personal wealth

pierce the corporate veil

is it the natural condition of humans to work? how are we to know when to stop? why are we doing the work we are doing, and not some other work? trade under capitalism, we are told by liberal theory is not a zero sum. its beneficial to all parties.

but is it? a huge amount of effort goes into busy work on behalf of the very rich. lawyers, accountants, luxury goods firms, builders making skyscrapers and mcmansions. but most of the world is poor. even in rich countries, there are homeless people who own nothing. should we not pause on space programs for trillionaires at least until everyone has somewhere comfortable to live?

obligation

as a child the buildings

and roads scared me

in their scale

the work of a million lifetimes,

where did they come from?

and what was my obligation?

all my life i’ve suffered

discrimination

just because i’m shy and lazy.

and inattentive

imperceptive, defensive

and stand offish

and prone to mischief.

i am terrible at job interviews. i am naturally averse to self-celebration, and not fast at thinking. a bit overly literal. dumbfounded by even the most predictable tell me about a time when. however, there is one question that i could answer endlessly – tell me your greatest weakness.

in my head

a rolled up blanket

for a headrest buttress

i report

every door i open

i say “this is where the magic happens”

in my head

and laugh

in my head

sometimes the poem is just what i was thinking that day. and where i was thinking it.

the yaktrax

a pointless punishment

for my eczemic fingers

janurian resolvers avoid

pavements rinkish

speak to the sun, the sky,

the sea and the trees

mass palomas fly,

sneeze around disease

rife and virulent,

bring us to our knees

re-shorn past the

pine scent xmas ceme-tery(eee)

my fingers were sore from the cold. the streets were asheet with ice. i bought myself some yaktrax, remembering them from a personal injury legal report. but the ice was gone before i got to wear them. meanwhile, people were throwing out their christmas trees, fed up of love and goodwill and all that sort of stuff.

ending

@poet’s corner 10 dec 2025

fellow poets, the end is nigh.

this is called, the hoarse foreman of the apocalypse

life under actually existing capitalism continues;

a unique combination of boring and stressful

the yoga word lost to an armed counter revolution

be mindful, namaste,

despite the flames, be restful

the firewater fades to a numb, dumb dysphoria

as we tag along

behind the hoarse foreman of the apocalypse

on foot due to cutbacks

i think about time a lot, the hopeless impossibility of the past, its unchanging nature, its doubtful provenance. but do facts remain or do they change over time? the despots of the past become sanitised by history. they become great men. nearly always men anyway.

but we don’t need great leaders. we need stability, peace, equality, food, shelter and entertainment. we need good company.

this is called

endless time

how would you feel

if everything happened forever

if every moment of your life was still ongoing

everything always in total contradiction

i want the unexpected

off script, dumbfound me

astonish me quick

with your attention to retail

when they finish the history books we’ll see

we just have to just accept the past

it happened

i was once diagnosed with a terminal illness. that was the start of my midlife crisis. i was then completely undiagnosed on my 39th birthday. a misread x-ray was all it was. i went to decathlon and listened to madonna.

i remember the days after diagnosis. feeling so heavy. feeling like i could forget to breathe. this is called

lonely consequence

maybe we can choose

our consequences

and gain energy as the

days accumulate

have i mentioned my inability to visualise the future?

scared, listless,

unreadily forced to bear witness

a dusken golden moment lighted

a sudden recognition;

that leaden feeling

when they tell you are going to die

is loneliness,

as much of it as you can have.

my on and off girlfriend and i were finally turning the dial fully to off. we were taking active steps to move on. it seemed like that was what we were going to do. i decided i would focus more on my housework. but as usual. the temptation to check in arose.

inconclusive, in conclusion

anyway, that was yesterday,

with that we close the chapter

for now the winter sun flits

over scarecrows, toclips and frosty nips

and it all begins to feel conclusive

but then the things as usual

start to get ambiguous

and once again of the good souls

we must ask forgiveness

and one last thing. this is the last chorus of the first year of my epic, ongoing, poem, the love epochal.

the redemptive final chorus

o wean in a manger,

your chocolate trough

it’s a preposterous amount but

somehow never enough

i have a theory

that love is pain

different but the same

reverse engineering

every poem, novel, recipe

and joke

exists quiet in the ether

the poet doesn’t create

she discovers;

with a notebook she uncovers.

a subterranean homesick miner,

reverse engineering the blueprints

of a universal designer

in a universe without life, does maths exist? does moral philosophy? do poems only exist after the are written? or are they just waiting to be found?

reus brexitus

brexitus rex, a fencepost;

no entry for french blokes

yes hello we are here

it is act two of don quixote

or quixote like quick’s oat

(though i prefer key oh tick,

like chaotic)

in which we ask,

will the windmills we recall

from the first act charge back?

in which we find,

that windmills

don’t charge on poets

happy new year.

i started publishing the poem a year after i started writing it. and as i published, i continued writing, but within a new context. in cervantes’ don quixote, book two was written after book two was published, and don quixote’s resulting fame was part of the story – the other characters he encountered has already read the first book. the first novel and the first example of metafiction. so if you are the sort of reader who throws the book at the wall when the author is introduced as a character, i’m sorry to inform you that this has been part of the challenge novels present to readers since the start.

the redemptive final chorus

o wean in a manger,

your chocolate trough

it’s a preposterous amount but

somehow never enough

i have a theory

that love is pain

different but the same

if there is one thing i have learned, it is that love is pain. love will always hurt. you have so much tied up in it. but it is worth it because a life without it is devoid of the highs and lows that are emblematic of the life poetic.

now is the time

i’m a basic bitch consumer

i just wanna be humoured

eat this pish

it’s a fancy foreign dish

while i appreciate expertise

i’m keener to fetishise

passionate begginerism

call for a strong and stable new era

are the good souls ready

to forget forgiveness

and embrace the love

that burns old epochs down?

dear reader: we embraced the love. it was a shame to burn the old epochs down. but one must live now, in the present. it’s the only show playing.

and aside from one final chorus, this is the end of part two of the love epochal. and it’s a happy ending! please join me in part 3, giletdonism, in which i start a new job, embark on a career as a poet and writer, and embrace gilets in my casual wardrobe.

the christmas rush (for profits)

we share lunar nectar

from the honeymoon phase

i’m melodramatic.

a little bit insane

come on to it,

we’ll get through it

furnished on pews at church for the bell

for those in the business

of avoiding hell

a prayer for vast,

wasteful riches

research and develop a needless

needle’s eye

and call it camel sized

to scadge a tad of marked time

then a renegade point one nine

in and out caused a firm, wide flummoxing…

i’ll be driving the laptop home

for christmas this year

happy/merry christmas, delete as appropriate.

my love and i shakily reunited, exchanging christmas gifts. she got me a guernsey. i got her a little scroll in a charm on a necklace. we decided to surrender to love.

work was busy, but i had a new thing lined up, and i was getting itchy for a new year, a new challenge, a new configuration.

my darling and i went to church to hear the choir. sadly it was their day off, so we just endured a freezing cold sermon. at least hell’s warm.