Mythomaniac

I’m a mythomaniac.
I’ve got no empathy with facts.
I make up things to not crack.
I’ve got a devil’s tongue on my shoulder for pacts.

I’m a mythomaniac.
I’ve got a shallow grave for yakety yak.
I make up things for what I lack.
I’ve got an angel on my shoulder to wing it with my quack.

I’m a mythomaniac.
I’m a legend with a tall tale to stack.
I make up things to clickety clack.
I’ve got a grave digger to cover my tracks.

I’m a mythomaniac.
I’ve got truths and lies holding back.
I make up things in my shack.
I ignore it if I give myself any flack.

Sleepy Head

Sleepyhead, shake a leg!
Do some of those things you said
before you peg it.
Baby, time to believe in yourself and beg.

The siesta sun is baking
your fried egg face on the bonnet.
You’re waiting for an awakening
but excuse yourself to sleep on it.

Do you wake up and smell the coffee too late?
Do you just cross off days or will you actually circle a date?
Is what you want to be just beyond you, mate?
These and other questions after the break.

Cigarette break during filming

We both go outside
during the break for a cigarette.
Look at each other and you give a quick nod upwards
meaning ‘You got anything to say yet?’

In the film since, I would have played my role:
walked towards you, taken a drag
and said something like ‘You want to go out?’
looking into your eyes as you draw on your fag.

Yet I give a quick nod upwards too
knowing it’s a kind of silent sign to discover.
We finish smoking without a word
and go back in with the break over.

In the film since, we played our roles.
Every scene played out with what was meant.
It’s a long time ago but fresh in the memory.
like smoke from cigarettes past and present.

Johnny Bizarre

Post office posts his collage faces
to random names and places.
When he’s not inspired he’s out of sorts
but when he is, he posts all kinds from his multi-faceted fort.

He gets upset cos he can’t tell the difference
between a compliment and an insult
and has mood swings like a child in a playground
as he blames himself cos it’s everyone else’s fault.

Talks to himself loud enough so everyone can hear in his imaginary supermarket
but whispers top secret thoughts to himself in private
and to not give anything away , reserves his right to silence
much to his psychiatrist’s annoyance.

Stands on his bed balcony
with his cuckoo clock
and shouts out the time
every evening at six o’clock
cos doors lock.

Catcrobatics

In a field not far away and nearer than it’s far,
a team of cats are practicing in Circuslandia.
Props for paws are all set out for them to do their tricks,
Daring furry exploits in a moggy mayhem mix.

A giant plastic foot for them to wrap their claws around,
to then leap from, in unison, and twist back to the ground.
A balcony to jump upon, just millimetres thick.
To see them pad it, so high up, may leave u feeling sick!

No obstacle course of furniture will have them slipping up.
In and out of spring-hinged wardrobes just before they shut.
Spectacular sofa scratching synchronized, covers all thread bare.
Pegs and rubbers, coloured balls, juggled here and there.

Hide’n’seek from room to room in a game of ambush tag.
One minute in a cardboard box, the next in a shopping bag.
Mechanical hands and arms play-fight as, in formation, they attack
Landing in perfect time together, rolling over, charging back.

In a field not far away and nearer than it’s far
a team of cats are practicing in Circuslandia.
Coming soon to your living room, kitchen and much more!
The greatest show ever seen through the cat-flap by your door!

Butterflies (It’s alright)

Music purists with a mess in their veins
spew out needle-injected words from their precious brains.
Blabbing-about-nothing and soon-to-be forgettable socialites
dodgem-car roll at smoky jokes that waft off to canned laughter into noisy nights.

If anything gets heavy,
it’s alright ‘cos it’s only temporary
and butterflies in a belly
beep faint signs of life by the hospital’s bedside telly.

Into the small hours, and revising memories for the next day,
swotters and blotters sit a 24-hour test of time that won’t last anyway.
Hot-air balloon and on-the-pull blow-up dolls and action men
randomly float away by mistake to a disco of karma and zen.

If anything gets too light,
It’s alright ‘cos it’ll fall with all its might
and butterflies in a belly
beep faint signs of life by the hospital’s bedside telly.

Out on the Town

On its numerous outings, it’s wreaked havoc
among the rest of the field with its zigzagging.
Inebriated on its own exuberance, if stuck
on the inside, its recklessness in getting itself free can be staggering.

Some, indeed, have even called for it to be barred,
fearing it could be the harbinger of a 1928 rerun.
It’s a sobering thought that many a race has been marred
by other horses falling over themselves to avoid this loose cannon.

As a matter of fact, it does come from military stock; its sire in artillery,
but, as a wayward colt, it’s rebelled against discipline.
Anyway, swayed pub punters hope they’ll be painting the town red after Aintree
in the unlikely event it heads straight down The Elbow and goes on to win.