my inner troll

Where does one find the time anymore?
It seems like lazy days have given way to hard graft.
Like painting and cleaning and tiling the floor.
In some ways I wish I could jump back a decade and just teleport.
Because, damn.
My mid-20s were easy as hell.
And moving up to London, after travels.
It didn’t take much to squeeze me out of my shell.
No real life troubles to speak of.
At least, that’s how it felt.
And yeah, I didn’t have much back then so I just tightened my belt.
But a decade down the line it feels like city life has taken its toll.
Yet I like to think new me has taken over old me by simply breaking the mould.
Yet old me stands on the bridge of progress.
And with stamina, I’ve loads left.
So I gotta start facing this troll.
Cos, let’s be honest.
Monsters grow larger if you let them just take control.
And mine seem to be where I fit in the world.
What’s my higher purpose?
Cos when I find it, I’ll need to give it strong foundations.
Reinforce it with iron girders.
And dip my mind in some fired furnace.
So it’s raw and hot like liquid steel.
But well worn.
Like an old coat with a vintage feel.
But to make my purpose reality I need to be unrelenting and dedicated.
I can’t lose my edge.
Like a fat cat no longer a hunter cos I’m now number and domesticated.
Which is leaving me at best, frustrated.
Am I ducking from destiny?
Can I not just face it?
Cos in my mind, I’ve got weapons to deploy like Castor Troy.
But first I gotta swap bodies and give myself a facelift.
Not hop from idea to idea.
Pretending like each one’s my favourite.
How do I best explain it?
You know how, each month, you would expect a wage slip?
Well imagine one day, you stopped being paid.
Cos it’s passion and purpose that now puts food on your plate.
So with my life path I should decide fast how I’m gonna go about choosing my fate.
I mean, I can’t just go around assuming I’m great.
Cos these flaws I have are not genetic.
I’m more apathetic.
And my lack of ambition is such a human mistake.
So if I don’t break this cycle I’ll just spin like vinyl.
And then I’ll end up losing this race.
Like an old cowboy past his prime.
Gun-toting and self-loathing.
At the bottom of a bottle and boozing for days.
But to be honest.
When I am actually old, what, for example, will I tell my grandson is my legacy?
Cos I’m done with these pleasantries.
Sod the rat race it lacks grace.
I’d rather be having fun with some weaponry.
Out in the woods somewhere, swinging a sword or throwing an axe.
But I know that’s just escapism.
And I refuse to play victim.
Blaming my lack of progress on the apparent failings of a lame system.
Cos my future isn’t preordained.
There’s nothing to be gained from how my name’s written.
So maybe I should just consider my old self Batman.
And to change, I need to snap back in a way that even Bane didn’t.
So yeah, what I’m saying is, I really need to acknowledge a new state to register as an apex predator.
Where I’m free from those soul-sucking sirens.
Aka WhatsApp and Facebook messenger.
Cos this nagging feeling I’ve got?
Well, it ain’t regular.
So emotionally, I’ve gotta remember to take my temperature.
Or I’ll be still be here in fifty years.
Just a sad and depressed lame type of pensioner.
Full of regret, all old and bitter.
Lamenting the fact I wasn’t colder, sicker.
And had slayed my trolls quicker like a bolder killer.
Cos all I had to do to make new me reality was to simply stand back, take stock and just hold a mirror.

Photo credit: chillier17 on deviantart.

Push it real good

Salt n pepa said that, back in 1988.
At that time music wasn’t faked.
Yet from stealing and sampling there was still no escape.
But the words, poppy as they were, still hold resonance.
Growing up in the ’80s and the ’90s decadence,
I used their melody to calm me and give my soul relevance.
Paying penance in the presence of my peers,
I faced my fears with benevolence despite my hesitance.

And their cries of ‘push it real good’ gave me drive.
I’d rave about how their lyrics kept my dreams alive.
Their catchy hooks gave me motivation at times
when I became complacent. But I stayed patient.
Facing enemies I built the hatred and became brazen.
My soul like a winged raven heading straight for satan.
Righteous indignation emblazoned on my chest for all to see.
‘S’ and ‘P’ shaven onto me, my ID for when you call the police.

For if you think my approach is orthodox, prepare to be outfoxed.
I’ll leave you feeling accosted and lost, broken down beyond cost.
You, like a defeated nation seeking reparation for your failures.
Me? Continuing to push it trying to influence your behaviour.
Cutting round you like a Savile row suit and I’m the tailor.
But in this instance I’m just applying the laws of nature.
Setting on you with a harpoon, you’re Moby Dick and I’m the whaler.
Captain Ahab, dooming my crew to the bottom of the ocean floor.
A ferocious and atrocious end… unless I learn to push it some more.

 

Worker bee

You’re a worker bee, when it comes to hard graft you’re far better than me.
Pushing to achieve you leave yourself with barely a second to breathe, you tend to get in too deep, so fast you can’t leave.
Pur-lease you tell others you’re just getting started, while others are smarting you’re sticking your arm out, chancing, taking risks, getting licked and making moves.
Yet whatever you do you tend to stay true… to yourself in your journey to ultimate wealth and riches.
Moving up with your fellows bees you learn to get along, you’re not bitches you’re strong, you learn to please and grease the wheels lest they look at you with unease.
And as you appease and squeeze them for all they are worth you get ahead of the pack and establish your turf.
Yet it hurts, this work, you’re relentless and ruthless, you were always taught it pays not be toothless.
Maybe it’s time you chilled out and listened to some smooth hits? Mellow you out, yeah that’ll work.
But before long you start to go beserk, goddammit you hate to shirk work. Let’s face it though you’re no Captain Kirk, you ain’t no hero.
For the most part you’re nothing but a zero, a flunkey, a worker bee, if someone has to suffer you’re the one that bleeds, you’re the one that takes a hit for the team.
Yet push on you must, it’s a disease that breeds in you like a virus. Maybe it’s something that we all have inside of us?
Most kick up a fuss when asked to go the extra mile but you dial it up, there’s something about work that gets you in the gut.
It’s tough but you’re a worker bee and the thought of that pollen is just too sweet.
To your fellow bees you probably look mean but at the end of the day who doesn’t want to be the one to protect the queen?