Take a Number and Wait

Ah, Sweden.
Sacrificer of sanity.
Land of blonde bureaucrats,
Preoccupied by paperwork.
They hide their humanity,
Behind fortresses of forms.
Exchanging efficiency,
For red tape and routine.
And soul numbing number queues.

Perspective

There’s fire and flooding,
Death and destruction,
And pain and pollution,
Debris and obstruction,
So it’s really just sad,
Not the least bit okay,
That I’m annoyed,
At not getting,
A pumpkin spice latte.

Maybe I Should be Worried

Sometimes I wonder if,
There’s something wrong with me.
These days I’ll go two days,
Without a shower,
Even three.
When people ask me how I am,
I usually say I’m good.
But I don’t know,
Cause I don’t do,
The things I really should.
By now I thought that surely,
I could get up,
Bright and early.
But these days I lie awake in bed,
Or often sleep,
Till noon instead.
I’ve got nothing coming up,
And no job to worry about,
So there’s not much point,
In getting up.
No point in going out.
No point in doing anything.
No point in getting dressed.
Sometimes I wonder,
If I’m lazy,
Or just really depressed.

Waiting for my SIM

A new phone I’ve got,
Which cost quite a lot,
For no doubt it was not,
Bought on sale.
The chances are slim.
The prospects are grim,
For my SIM being in,
Today’s mail.
Should I call to say,
Is my SIM on its way?
Can you send it today,
Without fail?
They’ll hear my plea,
Maybe feel sympathy,
But alas, it will be,
No avail.
And I’m feeling glum,
For again nothing’s come,
And my SIM travels on,
Speed of snail.

Still the Same

In one week now,
Or slightly less,
I will be thirty-seven.
Although I feel,
The same as when,
I was only eleven.
I’m still that child,
Withdrawn and shy,
And awkward and unsure.
Still wondering,
Am I good enough?
I’m just as insecure.
I thought by now,
I’d be more cool.
More bold, more confident.
But alas, I’m not.
I’m still the same.
But I’m okay with it.

Airport Limbo

Ten hours sitting,
In a airplane.
I can handle that.
Knowing that I’m almost there,
Soon to be somewhere.
But ten hours sitting,
In an airport,
Strains and drains.
Turns my brain to mush.
I’m neither here nor there.
I’m not anywhere,
But in airport limbo.
Just waiting.
And hating the waiting.

BAD MOOD

My contact lens ripped,
And got stuck in my eye.
It’s one reason why,
I’m in a BAD MOOD.
Don’t mean to be rude.
But seriously,
My back’s killing me.
I slept all night long,
But must have slept wrong.
Snapping at you,
I did not intend to.
I’m just in a BAD MOOD.
Going though a foul phase,
Having one of those days.

Heavy December

It’s December in Sweden,
Darkest time of the year.
When we’re all needing,
Snow to bring us good cheer.
For our hearts to brighten,
And our souls to lighten.
Snow, if you please.
But it’s too warm to freeze.
So the wind just throws rain.
Endless rain at your pane.
Endless gloom fills the room,
Fills your head and your heart.
And your soul feels so heavy,
In the dark.

WOTD: harlot

Today’s word is one of those words that should be used more often. It’s basically an old fashioned word for prostitute or whore. I used it recently in a poem and now my fellow RM members are using it.

And why shouldn’t they? It’s a delightful word that describes so many people, not just the whores, prostitutes, hookers, call girls, escorts, courtesans and other assorted naughty ladies of the night.

For example: “I’d like a word with the harlots responsible for the latest Facebook layout. It’s truly dreadful.” See, you could substitute the word “cunts” or similar, but I think using the word harlots makes it much more colorful and interesting.

The word harlot for me conjures up an image of a slightly chubby flame-haired prostitute bulging out of black and red lingerie and with a black feather boa draped around her shoulders. There’s also tinny old-timey piano music playing in the background and a bunch of cowboys standing around a bar drinking corn liquor.

Yes, them. Those Wild West harlots are responsible for the latest Facebook layout disaster.