Sinking Back

I was a junkie
Five years clean
Then, relapse
Old addictions
Need my fix
Every Day
Can't get it,
Withdrawal
Cold Turkey

It's vicious,
Candy Crush

Covid! Oh Covid!

Covid! Oh Covid!
I hate you! You prick!
2020 can suck my well-beaten dick.
If only I could
Have pub trips or parties.
Covid! Oh Covid!
My world you did seize.

Done little but eat,
Drink lots, game and sleep,
Curse the hypocrisy
Of the clapping sheep,
Arrange virtual events
That don't go ahead.
I feel invisible,
Just tweeting in bed.

Covid! Oh Covid!
You're on my shit list.
You'll regret the day,
That you chose to exist.
If this vaccine would work.
And this year won't stick
Covid! Oh Covid!
I hate you! You prick!

(Special thanks to Jack Prelutsky)

The 2010s

Stress of revision
A Levels and GCSEs
Eton posh boys
Hiking up tuition fees
The Mayans claimed
The would would end
A weight off my mind
Forced to grow up
By a cabal of sadists
Those exams meant nothing
Apprenticeships that pay pennies
Unreliable, overpriced public transport
Makes cars mandatory
Work is far away
And what is work?
Making someone else rich
Slavery by another name
I want to make art
But that doesn't pay
So I needed a job
Jobs get in the way
Houses are costly
Even to rent

So, in the 2020s
Fuck the establishment.

Strict Form or Free Verse?

Should my work be strict form or free?

Strict form; gives me guidelines.
Free verse; more emotion for me,
Without strict form's confines.

With free verse,
The emotion flows.
But it isn't always free.
It can drift,
into strict form.

So I prefer strict form,
I know what to work with
But emotion's lukewarm

I'll say it herewith;
I'm a wordsmith.

My strict form should be free
Yet my free form is too strict.
Why not both?
Signing off the month

Farewell,
Au revoir
Arrivederci
Adios

But I hate to say goodbye
So I'll say Auf Wiedersehen.

30 poems for 30 days
Maybe I'll try again next year.

NaPoWriMo: The Penultimate Poem

The penultimate poem:
What to do?

A hindmost haiku?
A terminal triolet?
The remotest rondeau?
I don't know.

The farthest free-verse?
A succeeding sestina?
The lowermost limerick?
Nothing seems to stick.

A closing cynghanedd?
An eventual elegy?
The rearmost ruba'i?
No idea, guess I'll die.

Maybe a mix of forms
Both strict and free,
That will serve
As a grand finale.

The Third Term

The holiday's ending.
Deadlines looming.
Assignments pending.

Coffee consuming.
My hair is tearing.
Insomnia blooming.

A lot of swearing,
and some crying.
Reminders blaring.

Submission's terrifying:
Always wondering,
References complying?

Plenty of pondering,
If I'm just blundering.

King for a Day

If I was a king,
Just for a day

Parliament would be abolished,
To be started anew.

Four-day work weeks
Nationalised public services
Return of university grants

Abolish exams
That'll get the youth vote

But most of the day
will likely be spent
on a farcical aquatic ceremony.