Monday, 11 June 2012

Difficult Day

I have a feeling,
Today is going to be,
A very difficult day;
A very, very,
Difficult, difficult day.

I anticipate,
The day today,
Might prove as difficult,
As another day today I had,
Of eight-years ago.

And that really was,
A very difficult day.

And please put that in very large capital letters,
Inside incredibly ginormous inverted commas, like this:
Because Honestly, it really was that difficult.
Verily very.

For all our yesterday's relived in the today,
Seem somehow less difficult,
Reprising in Mandalay;
Our revivified-backwards life where every sense is made -
Every sense that's there,
Seems so elusive for here today.

I wish I could sleep through a difficult today,
Like some people are now sleeping through mine -
Perhaps including you?
No wonder you aren't reading this,
Oh, I know you might think you are;
But you're really only dreaming you are,
So mired you are,
In this very difficult dream you are.

My hair smells of biscuits,
So I don't eat biscuits.
So does anyone eat biscuits,
So their hair doesn't smell of biscuits?

Still think you're not dreaming?

This is a very difficult day.
I cannot phone sick:
I know of no-one of that name.
I'm just having a very difficult day.

Difficult, difficult day.
Why of all days should today be a very difficult day?
Why, wouldn't it be so much easier,
If we had our difficult days scheduled on easy days?
Mind you, then the easy days wouldn't be so easy either.
Oh, this really is proving to be,
A very, very,
And a difficult, difficult day.
(And two very very's added to two difficult difficult's,
Equals very, very, difficult, difficult,
In my book).

Supposing today is a vegetable,
It would be a difficult vegetable:
A rude broccoli;
An angry frozen guacamole;
A passive-aggressive fleeyamblafroosh,
Or a boiling-with-rage tangly reeybuffooff!

And if today is a difficult carpet,
It would be an angry Axminster as tender drains.
Or a torn bamboo rug,
With impossible-to-remove wine stains.
Or a kitchen mat in musty-basement seventies mustard, custard swirls.
Or a student-fitted floor rag,
Spangled with moth-designed swirls.

And if today is a poem,
It would smell of biscuits.
Very difficult biscuits.
That's very and very,
And difficult and difficult,