Rainy Days And Sundays

 

Today I wear my Sunday head

As though I had some kind of choice

I woke up early playing Lazy Bones

A song that suits my Lazy Sunday voice

It’s funny how on Days Like These

I speak in hushed tones never shout

Then find my head starts filling up

With Carless Whisper’s nagging doubt

If ever there was such a Perfect Day

To nominate impending doom

Most agree the Road to Portishead

Folds Sunday’s blanket In My Room

As We See It

It all adds up but only if you're counting

Two sides to every argument

If fluently both explained

Showing proofs with actual facts

Good conclusions ascertained

But then again one can’t ignore

No point is ever always plain

As truth is found continually

In smaller particles of rain

In this continued quest for answers

Each stage is logged and clarified

Outlined fairly for veracity

Casting previous doubts aside

Permanence passed here long ago

And overcame each last conclusion

Proving life is nature’s free-for-all

Restoring order from confusion

Teas’ a Pleaser for the Geezer

Using tea bags for a cuppa

Needs a kettle cup and cover

A teabag placed in readiness

For the teatime sipping lover

Its tea you see the spice of life

A union suffused

Brewing richly in the lava

A cauldron scald imbued

In my pot of percolations

Bathed aromas in the brew

I biscuit dip lean back and sip

It’s my teatime point of view

Future Proof

 STORY LINK CLICK HERE

UK DAILY MAIL

In need of personal maintenance

For her Barnet and her rind

She simply ordered goods online

To reinstate her look refined

Restoring style and coiffure shine

Returning corium to gleam

But! Delivery has her frothing

In lather puffs of boiling steam

Instead of promised luxuries

Embracing dream relaxing thoughts

She found herself like Jason Bourne

With twenty different passports

And so it is no foam nor fizz

No candlelight bathtime revive

Just a visit from the NSA

And scrutinised by MI5

Down Town

Shop assistants sideways whisper

Conspiratorially they grin

As visitors peruse displays

Careful lest they might butt in

That was how the high street died

When shops became a suit-yourself

Arrays displays like catalogues

Bookend salons on the shelf

Clienteles became intruders

Bombarded by those worn out deals

Plastic flags enticing shopping bags

Continual sales like old newsreels

Encouragement was further sapped

By the high street in decay

Surrounded by the growing derelicts

Nowhere to park too much to pay

Shopping is a sensual mode

Complex games of interaction

Like asking strangers for a dance

Pursuing mutual satisfaction