TODAY, JEFFREY BOILS IS MOSTLY ANGRY WITH . . .
Today, Jeffrey Boils is mostly angry with:
The number of eyelets in his brogues, the length of his own shoelaces, and their capacity to undo themselves precisely eight minutes into his walk to work;
The pending update on his laptop that says it will be for his convenience
When nothing computer-related is ever for his convenience;
And the half-hour wait that might force him to acknowledge Martin from the next-door office
When he can’t face another conversation about Chelsea this year.
Or any year.
Today, Jeffrey Boils is mostly angry with:
The red dot appearing on his email tab when there is no new email (there is a special circle of hell for the people responsible for notifications. At least there is in Jeffrey’s world);
The quality of the bread in his Tesco meal deal cheese ploughman’s;
The drizzle over lunchtime that meant he had shelter at the bus stop for fifteen minutes,
Which was still better than risking a conversation with Martin in the kitchen;
Every single one of the emails he has received that he didn’t need to receive because he was copied in, say, or because they were just acknowledgements, say, or because he wasn’t interested in them, say.
So that was all of them, then.
And, of course, the number of eyelets in his brogues, the length of his own shoelaces, and their capacity of undo themselves precisely eight minutes into his walk home.
In the torrential rain.
And after having to wait half an hour for his laptop to update.
Whilst Martin decided to fill him in on the progress of Chelsea F.C. since 19-fucking-63.
And why, we ask, because he won’t, is Jeffrey Boils so angry with all these things today and every day?
Why the focus on the brogues and the laces and the sandwiches and on the need to avoid punching Martin right in his doughy mush?
Because Jeffrey Boils needs to keep up his anger on these things,
So he gets nowhere near the anger he knows he might otherwise feel
About so much else.
But, then, you knew that, didn’t you?
(prev. pub. by Doctor Funny)
I KEPT MY RECEIPTS
I kept the receipts for my group therapy and my EMDR.
I can give you the dates for the Cognitive Analytical Therapy,
And my mindfulness raisin-gazing.
I waited out the waiting list for DBT and Peer Support,
And I kept myself going with the Buddhist nun's sessions
At the Quaker Centre.
So, forgive me, but when you "have a problem"
With what I think or believe or who I am,
Even though it ought to have nothing to do with you
If I read those words or I eat less meat;
When you need me to account for being something you're not
Because that's somehow stopping you from being
Whatever the hell you think you are,
And it threatens you that there are people
Who might be different in one way or another
As if their difference from you is what is important here,
Let me tell you again:
I kept the receipts.
I worked on my shit in my own time.
So what makes you think any of us
Should provide the same service for free for you?
(prev. pub. by The Haven)
WHAT DO YOU EXPECT ME TO DO WITH THIS?
What do you expect me to do with this?
That you got ten out of ten on the multiple choice internet thing
You clicked on because you thought it was a news story
And then couldn’t bloody leave until fifty clicks later,
Because your self-worth is apparently bound up with
The kind of site that brings you
51 Best Celebrity Knees
And 43 people you didn’t know who’d died
(But might actually still be alive, because they haven’t checked).
They’re always an odd number, aren’t they?
Have you noticed?
It’s like they don’t care,
As long as you keep clicking,
And then you start liking,
And then your bloody score pops up in front of me
For some kind of response.
But what?
Dear God, tell me, what?
Do you want a pat on the back? A gold star? A slow hand-clap?
Don’t get me wrong, I’m pleased you know who Shakespeare is.
Your skill with the multiple choice clickbait crap is obviously impressive.
Any fule can see that from your Twitter feed,
Even if it’s doubtful the question setters know what they’re talking about
When they think only a genius could tell Boris Johnson from David Cameron
Just four bloody years on from Cameron leaving, for Chrissakes.
And when their questions surf only the scum from the surface of Wikipedia
And half of them are taunting you for how old you are—
“We can guess your age, if you remember Spangles and Grange Hill and President Reagan.”
And then you can feel proud about that (proud? Really?)
And then you can tell me.
I mean, I’ve got something like 100 million neurons in my brain—
(Or is it billion? You see, I’m not one for stupid certainties)—
And you’re presenting me with this,
And you’re asking me to Do Something With It,
And I’ve no idea what it even means.
And now I’m clicking the bloody thing to see the questions,
And now I’m skipping past the 37 Celebrity Armpits,
And now I’ve got the bloody questions in front of me,
And now—
Oh, I get it.
Firstly, it’s not ten out of ten.
It’s 23 out of 23, because they really don’t give a damn how many, do they?
They just give up when the next dumb thing comes along they need to write.
And secondly—
It’s done. I’ve got my score.
I press Share.
And it’s over to the rest of them—thank God.
What do I expect you to do with this, then?
Frankly, I couldn’t care less.
Which is the whole point, isn’t it?
(prev. pub. by the Daily Drunk)
BELINDA MANNERS IS MANAGING
Her reminders ping to multiple CCs; to her, all are subordinate.
She administers the stationery; she admonishes those misusing it.
She oversees the office; she officiates at disputes.
She punishes with impunity, no crime is too minute.
If they complain that she is petty, that there is more to life than this,
She’ll remind them of her authority; that their presence won’t be missed.
But when she comes home at eight
After watching in the car park,
As the last one out locks the gate—
Regrets another day ending after dark,
She’ll have the first of many (Casillero Del Diablo)
As she circles the intention to let her consciousness slide to shadow.
But the words that will still come to her,
When she slides back on the sofa,
Are the ones she’s heard from waking up,
Each day since the post was offered to her.
They’re the words she hears in everything,
That the staff would know, too:
Belinda Manners is managing
So, at some level, that must be true.
(prev. pub. by Sledgehammer)
ALL YOU SEEM
All you seem in all you are
in the pictures that you post
of the times you won’t recall,
with one finger on record
so compelled to share it all,
with the friends you don’t know,
who themselves do the same,
Like, Share, Post, Like, Pout
False faces in the Frame.
But the selfies aren’t you
and the faces aren’t yours
and the places you’ve been
are so many closed doors
in the Black of the night
when you flick through the fictions
and you block out the sight
of the lying depictions
of a life lived whilst absent
so obsessed with the scores
that you’ve never been there.
Whose life? Not yours.
(prev. pub. by the Daily Drunk)
ANALOGIES
Like a used hatchback with bald tyres negotiating the Matterhorn.
Like a Poundland water pistol against rampaging rhinos.
Like a can of Coke Zero versus a Vesuvian eruption.
Like a block of processed cheese attempting to comprehend nuclear physics.
I keep going with the analogies, in the hope that there will be one that might fit the image we’ve so often seen on our screens this last year.
Like an eight-stone weakling against the Rock.
Like a meringue sitting its viva.
Like a wedding speech using only the lyrics of “Why Don’t We Do It in the Road?”
Like a parachute made from used napkins.
There are plenty more where those came from.
But perhaps they’re not needed.
Because there it is again, on the screen right now—
That look.
On the prime minister’s face.
Trying to comprehend where he’s gone wrong
As if the question is in English,
But he needs to answer in interpretive dance.
And he’s tied his own shoelaces together.
(prev. pub. by Little Old Lady Comedy)
________________________
Today’s LittleNip:
IF FOR NO ONE ELSE THEN FOR YOURSELF
—Mike Hickman
Dear shovel-faced angry customer,
what exactly have you added today
to the sum of human kindness?
Or do you see that as just the responsibility of others?
(Silly question, I know, but I thought I’d get it out there.)
So he messed up your order
so you weren’t presented with perfection
But where’s the agreement you signed
that said it was your entitlement?
And, frankly, what the fuck does it matter?
Well, actually, it does, and I care enough to want to ask
who’s actually brought down, made miserable by this?
Whose face is more shovel-like as a result?
Please see, why can’t you, it hurts you as much as anyone.
And much more than him.
For your own sake, be kind.
(prev. pub. by the Daily Drunk)
__________________________
Welcome back to the Kitchen, Mike Hickman, and many thanks for your passel of poems today, flying to us all the way from York-over-the-sea. Medusa is thoroughly enjoying the terms and usages of British poetry (eight-stone weakling!) from our friends in the British Isles. Such differences make us look closer at our own version of “English”. Thanks again, Mike, and—well said!—for our own sakes, let us be kind.
__________________________
—Medusa
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