Mondays are Right Bastards #writephoto

And so to Sue’s prompt – v. late as I am, a poem about time from this

sue-time

Monday Morning

 

The clock flips over.

I stir, dragged from my Kapok smothered dreams.

I struggle upright like the first primate,

And the forward shuffle, preternaturally aged.

Wobbling I make the bathroom without memory.

I sit and piss. If I try to stand and perform,

I prove, for the umpteenth time, that I can’t multitask.

The clock flips over.

I exercise my eyelids; small, painful push-ups.

I stare in the mirror; a dark eyed cadaver is blocking my view.

Like some trainee barrista, practising his skills,

I tip blood-rippled foam into the sink and sprinkle it with bristles.

My fingers have solidified overnight.

My trousers and shirt fight with flimsy determination to stay hung.

My cuff links scurry away from my grasp, like coy beetles, refusing to pair off.

The clock flips over.

My conscious, spastic with sleep, is wilfully resistant

To the blandishments of the knowing eager subconscious,

Well aware that time is already oozing away,

Trying to instil some urgency into my tortoise progress.

I fight my maladroit body:

Deformed by sleep, my wrist has grown, crowding my watch.

My bulimic nose vomits snot into a kitchen tissue,

While my glasses slip down its anorexic sides.

The clock flips over.

I take my turgid thinking and retire to sit and shit.

I think my first coherent thought of the day: do my socks match?

With that small effort, my synapses snap to attention and

Free my frantic subconscious from its dopey prison.

It grabs at my attention, still gasping for air, and batters

Me out of my complacent, reckless disregard of time.

The flipping clock accelerates regardless.

I hurry my thick fingers

To solve the final puzzles.

They refuse to comply.

The hole is too small

For the button.

The wallet is square

The pocket is round.

I abandon the game.

The race is on,

Adrenal glands pump

All sweaty effort

Hope leaks

From each pore.

Every step is up.

The pavement

A down escalator.

The station

Creeps closer.

Oblivious

To my untied shoe

My flapping fly

My bursting heart,

I grow new senses.

I smell

Taste

Feel

The

Inevitable

Disaster.

The indifferent second waves at me from the end of the train.

I stand and practice my calming techniques;

My smug-conscious nods knowingly

While my forgotten oyster card, my mobile, my keys,

Rest content by the constant clock,

Still flipping over.

 

About TanGental

My name is Geoff Le Pard. Once I was a lawyer; now I am a writer. I've published three books - Dead Flies and Sherry Trifle, My Father and Other Liars and Salisbury Square. In addition I published an anthology of short stories, Life, in a Grain of Sand this summer. A fourth book will be out soon. This started life as a novel in a week on this blog and will follow later this year. I blog about all sorts at geofflepard.com and welcome all comments. These are my thoughts and no one else is to blame. If you want to nab anything I post, please acknowledge where it came from.
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34 Responses to Mondays are Right Bastards #writephoto

  1. Phil Taylor says:

    Working “maladroit” into anything is always impressive!

    Liked by 2 people

  2. Ritu says:

    How so many feel on a regular morning! How colourfully put His Geoffleship !!!

    Liked by 1 person

  3. Remind me to keep well clear πŸ™‚

    Liked by 1 person

  4. Pingback: Photo prompt round up – Time #writephoto | Sue Vincent's Daily Echo

  5. Sue Vincent says:

    Even working seven days a week, there is something about Mondays…
    Thanks, Geoff. I added the link to the round up πŸ™‚

    Like

  6. Sue Vincent says:

    Reblogged this on Sue Vincent's Daily Echo and commented:
    A late entry from M. Le Pard…

    Like

  7. trifflepudling says:

    Don’t remind me. Every day at this time of year!
    One of my most catastrophic mornings a few years ago was when I left something downstairs whilst I was upstairs starting to get dressed. I remembered something I had to get downstairs and flung on my nightie and moved off towards the door all in one movement. Unfortunately I was momentarily impeded by my nightie catching on the bedpost and then ripping from top to bottom!

    Liked by 1 person

  8. Wow, I was out of breath reading this one Geoff. I love the way you wrote this, and was running for the train with you, feeling the sense of urgency, then slumped when you missed it and realised you had left all your important stuff at home, by that dratted clock!

    Like

  9. One can only hope the day gets better ……….

    Liked by 1 person

  10. Al Lane says:

    (whispered) I rather enjoyed this…

    Liked by 1 person

  11. You’d think one would be limber after so many years of practice but time slows us down and gives us stiff limbs we need to stretch before vacating our beds.
    Love the poem. Not a good morning. πŸ™‚

    Liked by 1 person

  12. Bun Karyudo says:

    You seem to have used the start of my working week as your modal. It’s uncanny! I particularly appreciated the line about multitasking, by the way. It’s so very true. πŸ™‚

    Liked by 1 person

  13. As a new retiree after 48 years of teaching, I seldom, if ever, use that dreaded alarm clock. With many moons of mornings at 4 AM, I now sleep in blissfully not worrying about the tick tock of that clock. Then I wonder to myself what day and time it is. Never in the wildest dreams did I think I might become one of them: retirees, well-rested and smiling at the world. Thank you for the enjoyable visit today.

    Liked by 1 person

    • TanGental says:

      Thank you for reading. I think it is a joy yo remove the alarm clock, indeed clock tyranny from ones life. Glad you are in that happy place esp after such an innings teaching. Hats off for that.

      Liked by 2 people

      • Thank you for your kind words. Many thousands of lives touched during those years as well. It was rewarding and many still keep in touch! Alarm clocks were a necessary evil! I know people that threw them away when they retired. ^__^

        Liked by 1 person

  14. jan says:

    Oh my, I hate mornings like that but nicely done. “the hole is too small for the button…” a great metaphor for that kind of morning.

    Liked by 1 person

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