Predictable predictors get so used to predicting what will happen,
it’s almost like nothing does.
Snatching depression from the jaws of happiness
they wear puppets on their gloves.
Isn’t it just the way
that bottles of wine spin at the end of the day
when things were just getting better?
When it seemed there were enough hours left to out-welcome any stay?
So, The Optimists’ Club turns over a new leaf
and stick post-it notes with The End is Nigh written on their foreheads
and go to sleep wearing their sandwich board pyjamas
lying on top of each other, stacked up like bunk beds.
90s ghosts in The Beer Engine in Newton St Cyres
get butterflies in their stomachs about haunting the station
throwing up collectors with their nets
to get caught and pinned down in their own dusty collection.
Do you ever make up conversations
with real people in your head?
That then keep you awake at night as you mull over every word
and later quote them verbatim to others: words they actually never said?
Chancers scratch scratch cards
looking for a better future
but start to lose sight of why they started
and scratch out their eyes.
Meanwhile, somebody who shall remain nameless chants:
I need no-one’s help
to snuff out my own desperate cries
and do tricks to a standing ovation to fool myself
until the clapping dies.
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Author: aprettykettleofpoetry
