Monday morning, March 10

way ahead of myself,

been outside for a walk

already, woo hoo


bad-temperedness turns me off

i turn away


what’s it like to be

in your sixties

ill and tired

relying on your son’s help

and spoken to like

you’re a stupid old man

you don’t do anything right

fuck there isn’t even twine

without knots in it for

fuck’s sake

fuck — set up for wood

and don’t even have a

supply laid in for winter

fuck fuck fuck


when i heard this ranting

i felt ashamed of my friend

and embarrassed for him

a bad-tempered child whose

tantrums are tolerated

and endured

like he is l’enfant terrible

which i guess he is


grow up, i think


“it’s too bad,” i think,

as i turn away


it doesn’t have to be like this




what is, is


he’s tired, stressed

yeah yeah

i make excuses for him


everyone is tired

everyone is stressed

we control ourselves

we talk like adults

we don’t take out our frustration and anger on

anyone around us

who happens to be available

as if we are little princes

whose every inconvenience

must be lamented

from the rooftops

so everyone else can

share your fucking misery


why not spoil their

happiness too, eh?


i lie in bed, turned away

as far away as i can get

oh there is love, there is

wanting to hold you close

but there is a barrier

of childish discourtesy

that won’t let me

turn over

and lay my hand

on your arm