This is the second volume of poems and writings. This volume has slightly longer ‘pieces’ in it, Some of the things in here aren’t poems as such, more like small writing pieces? So sorry if you get bored, thanks for checking this out though.
I don't think I could stand another poem, In which the writer is comparing the seasons to their mental state, Go out and make yourself feel better, That’s what I get drilled into my head most days of the week, How do you rid yourself of the cold feeling? In which you aren’t special for possessing, But what’s the point in trying, I’m going to write the classic predictable line, Telling you to give up trying, Telling you it isn’t worth it, Cynics like me aren’t worth battering an eyelid at, I’ll only bring you down, And drag you into this pit of self pity, The one I've been dwelling in for hundreds of years. Redeem me darling, Free me from sin.
Survival of the Fittest
Remember when we were younger and I’d meet you in that cafe in town, What was it called again? well, it doesn’t matter that’s irrelevant I was always there hours before we arranged, waiting on you. Eventually, you’d walk in, casually late, bright red lipstick, pushing your hair up, you always had problems with split ends. We’d talk about school days and ‘survival of the fittest’ I always had doubts, even then, I knew I wasn’t going to make it, I don’t mean that in a ‘I’m going to kill myself’ sense It’s just that I’m totally hopeless But you, You had it all going for you, with your eyes of fire, full of zest, full of lust And I’m not saying that’s a bad thing, anybody you’d look at would drop dead, you took it for granted, and don’t get me wrong I totally would if I had such allurement 30 years on, where did you go? How have you been? Remember that record I lent you, yeah it was a long time ago, but do you know the one I’m on about right? Well, I kind of want it back, see I haven’t grown up, I still have that stupid collection of records Here I am, sitting in the arm chair, still watching badly filmed westerns from the 70s Where did all those years go? I sold my soul to the devil in my head and he won’t give it back Unless I admit Admit that I have wasted almost a lifetime a lifetime which has been painfully thrown away It nearly kills me to admit it The hopes of being the next John Wayne or Neil Armstrong drifted away long ago along with my puppy fat My whole life I’ve been on my knees rummaging through my mind
for past memories and old routines, desperately trying to find something comforting amongst the rubble What good is that for me? What has that achieved? A collection of old records, distant memories of playground doubt, a pile of books I’ve been meaning to read for an eternity and a strong lingering sense of disappointment Naturally, being a cop out, I’d tell you just to give up But I did that you see, and look at me now Hopeless, Worthless, Nothing to show, I wonder if you still think of me, One half of me would like to think so, But then again, Why would you? I don’t mind if you forget me, In the long run it’s best if you did.
I Can’t Stay Here Forever
All those cruel playground games I felt were compulsory to play left me with bruises and a constant reoccurring thought, ‘is this what it’s all about?’ I don’t want to be ‘IT’ again, or ‘stuck in the mud’, subject of attention, and not the good type. Forcing all of the blame onto me for the smashed windows, bad football skills, mindless foolery Destination: The headmaster’s office, ‘taking one for the boys’ as they so wrongly put it My knees are shaking and my hands tremble, I can feel the sweat starting to form on my forehead, my breathing becomes erratic 5 strikes of the cane to the finger tips, this is how it carried on, for at least a year, I got used to being the scapegoat I ran to you when I was upset, but never told you what was wrong You’d just sit there and not expect a word, silently playing with my hair in an attempt to comfort me I haven’t seen you in a good 10 years, how have you been, do you still live up near the old, supposedly haunted cinema? You called me while I was watching ‘The Maltese Falcon’ for the umpteenth time, asking if I want to meet you for a drink 1pm, under the train station clock, 17th of November, either ‘79 or ‘80 I can’t quite recall, I mean usually I could but my head just ain’t what it used to be Your train pulls in My knees are shaking and, my hands tremble, I can feel the sweat starting to form on my forehead, my breathing becomes erratic First thing you do is grab my hands ‘Your fingers look a little worse for wear; you should use some hand cream’ Nothing of the doctor’s orders will eradicate the horrible reminder: ‘Why am I still in this one story town after all these years, I went to school here, I’ve worked for every other retail chain, I know every residents routine
Mr Drew will walk past here any second now to go to Joe’s Cafe, it’s his lunch break’ I can’t stay here forever.
You were right when you told me Morrissey was an asshole, And I agree now that ‘Born in the USA’ is a brilliant LP You taught me not to take myself so seriously, You taught me there is more to writing than Kerouac and Hemmingway, You taught me to open my mind, and that it’s okay not to always have my feet firmly on the ground, How could I ever thank you? You’ll never accept my gratitude, like Kurt Cobain being presented with an award, Maybe I could buy you the new Radiohead record? Nah you’re right, it sucks Or maybe I could give you back your copy of ‘2112’, I have had it for months, Is that enough? I’m never enough, Maybe ‘What’s the Story Morning Glory’ isn’t as bad as I say, even if our views on Liam do differ, Maybe this fancy tea I’m drinking is just a bid to win you over, To show you I can be cultured, Because I’m so caught up on what you think, I don’t impress you, do I? Who needs Lady Grey anyway? My words are churning and choking like that dodgy copy of ‘From Her to Eternity’ in my cassette player, The copy you found in Oxfam, You always were very lucky in what you found, Until you met me.
On Thursday evening I saw you, I could tell it was you, You stood out like the spotlight was gleaming on you, With your mousey brown hair and long coat, Provoking memories of Celia Johnson, But unfortunately this wasn’t like Brief Encounter. You were sitting by the river’s edge, You want people to think you were sitting there for peace of mind Or to admire the scenery, But you were sitting there because you like the idea of people having those assumptions, Because you’ve watched too many movies, And I’m not one to comment, I’m always hopelessly trying to find a way to live in a film like dream world myself, And if the director snapped his clapper board, We would have to kiss in the synthetic rain But you’ve watched far too many horrors And fixated with the over romanticized look of a brightly lit French film, which is what sets us apart. Movies have warped our minds, And it’s the best thing which has ever happened to me.
A scrapped introduction to a book idea I had once.
She didn’t care much for my ramblings, or over-analysing of situations. She looked good today, even with her chipped nails and black bags under her eyes, these, what some people would call ‘imperfections’ or ‘flaws’, made me like her even more. She was wearing a Sweat Shop jumper which I gave her a few months back when we first met, she was walking home in the cold and I had it with me in my bag. I told her it looks better on her than me and that she should keep it, she hasn’t actually said thank you yet but I know she is thankful for it; otherwise she wouldn’t wear it every other day. Driving along in an awkward silence isn’t the most pleasurable or comfortable of situations so I thought putting the radio would help and start some form of mutual conversation, until I remembered I cannot tune into 6 Music in my car as I only have AM and FM, and I had no noteworthy CDs in the glove compartment, not that I could see of anyway. I thought proposing the question would break the ice, regardless whether I could follow up the answer or not. “What shall I put on?” I asked her while fumbling with one hand in the glove compartment and one hand on the wheel. She handed me a Roxy Music CD which she had in her bag. Maybe she brought it with her because she knew I didn’t want to put my own music on, or she wants to show me her musical interests? Whatever the reasoning I put it on, despite having a strong dislike for Roxy Music. “The only thing I like involving Brian Eno is that record he done with David Byrne, you know that electronic one, the name escapes my mind”
Was this a light way of telling her I didn’t like one of her favourite bands? It probably was but I shouldn’t disagree with her, she’ll probably find someone much better and worthwhile to hang out with. “You must be stupid, Roxy Music are great! You need to listen to them properly; you can borrow this CD if you want” I liked it when she was talking like this, you could see her passion, even though it was defending a band I don’t particularly like, it was great that she had strong interests or whatever, even if she rarely showed it. I agreed to take the CD home with me, despite already knowing it was awfully dreary music in which I had no interest in. Would pretending to get into it be a good idea, maybe that way we could form some mutual interests .
Everything written by Jake Farey. Thanks to ‘The Gaslight Anthem ‘and ‘Only Fools and Horses‘ and coffee for fuelling my creativity.