Miserable Cocktail Couples

The miserable cocktail couples are out again
because work got cancelled and they'd rather be unhappy together in a place like this
rather than be alone at home in front of another original British drama the BBC seem to making at the moment
(this one's like the last one but the protagonist's a female with a drinking problem).

I've made enough small talk with hairdressers
to know how a conversation works and I'm overhearing
question sentences that are opening the floor up to one word answers-
and mate,
if you wanna marry this girl ask her what she wants from life,
what she wants to achieve and maintain and hold onto and pass down,
not what soap she likes out of the two you know about
and if she minds being with a man who sometimes
gets a bit lairy with the lads when he's had one too many pints on a Monday night out.

The miserable couples are sipping at their cocktails
thinking BBC One would have been a better risk than this.

Dunkin' Donuts

Dressed up for a Dunkin' Donuts job interview;
to her this is shoes for the school run and a well earned rest away in Majorca,
to her, the interviewer, she's just another vacant position filled and a monthly bonus. 

Why Earphones Were Invented

for Nathaniel Baldwin. Look where we are now.

Block out the noise with your noise
and look at their miserable faces.
Construct stories from wrinkles,
novels from bent noses,
secrets from something not normally seen when scored to the sound of the street.
Look how his or hers hands are tucked away in pockets,
their shoes not tied up,
their hood down, not in use, even though it's raining.
Investigate the smallest of facial movements;
interrogate winces and winks and slow burn, smoldering ember blinks.
Look at how he holds his pints,
puffs up his chest wanting a fight yet no army sit behind him as backup.
Look at the lonely blonde smoker who joins conversations
though she knows no-one she is talking about.

Composers compose to concentrate what we see into a musical form,
not the other way around.

A Superdry Day

It's raining and a second Superdry store
has just opened in the center of town
and I dip into M&S to get a drink
and overhear the till-man say to a small woman
price of lemons has gone down 3p since last week,
every little helps, love-
a Tesco sentiment, not one of this fine establishment. 

To The Paramedic Scooping Me Into A Body Bag

To the paramedic
scooping me into a body bag after that terrible crash,

sorry that you don’t know my name,
your slaps to my cheek in an attempt
to stir me from my bruised sleep was not enough
of a hit in the face to wake me up and tell you my name.

All you know of me is that I’m five-eleven
with brown hair and bloodshot eyes
and one less shoe than when I began my journey and
in my pockets are nothing except for one receipt
for a Sainsbury’s meal deal I didn’t complete and my wallet.

Open it. Find my name and trace my evening back to
here where I met you and if you look behind that license
and behind that fifty-percent used two-free-cinema-tickets coupon-
a date with myself-
you'll find my heart of the wallet donor card.
Use it wisely.