Me Time

Looking at the wall
With a most pleasing half eyed drawl
I lay there motionless cold
Save for the twitch in my foot and the
Occasional look to the big fat rat
Who sat
Smiling from his chair his glare
Deadly reminiscent of a time only
He and I share.

On Behalf of

Dear Mr grebe
There’s no panic we’re not on the titanic.
Its not even a boat
Its simply a stream
Maybe a shelf
Maybe.  Maybe a chair or a desk
Or the carpet.
But I assure you its not on the sea. And we’re not drowning. Although you may have thought we were, with the noise up the street last night. But I tell you we’re not. We’re just not. Its all in your mind and if you alow yourself a few moments of peace from the p’s and the T’s and the m’s and the N’s then I think you’ll find it maybe a hill. Or a tree you see. So don’t panic Mr Glebe it really isn’t the Titanic. You’re still surrounded by your cutlery and your plates and your jewels. You’re not screaming and your lungs are not being filled up with freezing cold water.  You’re breathing in sweet surrey air, and there’s a squirrel on your door step. There are leaves on the trees. And your cat doesn’t need any arm bands or a wet suit. So please Mr Greed don’t phone me again in a panic, ‘cos you’re really not on the Titanic. Amen.


The Sneeze

It was one day last November
A man with glasses
I’m just trying to remember
Sat next to me on the bus
No it was September.
I know because it hadn’t started to snow
And the bearded men were storing their wives down below.
He smiled and gave me a wink,
The man
On the bus
A come on I think
And it would have been ok
The come on and the wink,
Had it not been for this large boil on his neck 
That was gently oozing pus
A bunch of slow slugs taking a long trek
off the bus.
I tried hard not to cus
At the pus
‘Cos it was bugger that I was thinking
Looking at this flow this excretion this flux that
My eyes were drinking.
I couldn’t help but notice this mountain of green
Venting it bilious volcanic spleen
I gasped for air
As he lent over
And then suddenly there was this very faint odour
Well faint at first
But then it got stronger
And longer, as I breathed in hard trying not to scream.
I thought of mimosa flowers and sweet
Japaneese ice cream
Fluffy cheese balls
And clean Eucalyptus steam
But it didn’t work it was still there
coming closer
That great ball that violent stare
A turbulent storm
An eye ball
A dead prawn.
He smiled nicely
The man
And didn’t stare
Just seemed concerned at my longing to change seats
And not to share.
He held out his hand
And with that touch I felt like part of a clan
 A rabbit wanting to return to its hutch
No care  of the captor
Just a need again to be there on the chair.
So I got back to my seat from my place on the floor
To which I had leapt
And from where I was sure
I would be leaving.
I started breathing
The seat felt fine as it had before.
I sat there in silence unable to move
Knowing I needed to not look at my shoe
When suddenly courage took hold
I looked up tried to be bold
Stared him straight in the eye
Attempted a grin
But I caught sight of it again poking out from under his chin.
I couldn’t disguise my shock my body took over
It was an impulse I couldn’t help it
I was sick on his shoulder
And then on his knees,
I was trying to miss them
Try a puke like a sneeze and go over
But alas it was not to be
And as I said
It flew through the air
And landed right on his knee.
I don’t ride on the bus any more
I walk and therefore
For future an ability to move
far away
If I again
I Once come across
A time where I am at a loss
And don’t know what to do
And have to rely
On staring very hard at my shoe.

Oh Jeremy

Jeremy wanted to kill himself
I told him not to
It’s a really stupid idea.
I said.
He tried anyway

It was disappointing watching him throw himself off the sofa.
That’s really sick and quite boring
would take
and reduce it to the level of a
Childs game.
But that was what jeremy was like.

 "Thats what I'm like"  he said.

 It was the last straw -
The straw that broke the
Don’t come back.
I said
I  dumped him this time
As he threw himself off the bed

Poems by Sarah Coomes