Thank you for the memories,
The unexpected, sudden hits of nostalgia
Taking me back to carefree days
Of playing football after a summer rainstorm,
Of laughing in woodwork class,
Of my grandmother's awesome cakes.

Like time travel on the cheap,
You weather away the years,
And the strata of cynicism and regret,
Momentarily eroding my reality,
Revealing the manchild at my core,
Allowing him the briefest chance to once again explore.

But these are unpredictable reveries,
Three dimensional snatches of memories.
It's time they developed some kind of smell recorder,
Just like sights and sounds can be held for posterity.
But such technology would not compare to my physiological wonder;
Magically transforming scent into vivid memories.

Your shrill, yet oddly pleasant sound, echoes loudly down the long corridor.
I try to ignore you as the jaunty sound clashes with my melancholy mood,
Yet I find the notes and melodies cling to my mind like tissue stuck to a shoe,
Hanging on for it's own amusement,
Ignorant of my desire not to be teased nor humoured at this anxious time.

I feel I shouldn't like your racket,
My naïve ears and young years sense, not only an inappropriate comedy in your sound,
But also a daunting undertone,
Adding to my sense of having been plunged into deep icy waters.

Perhaps your music soothes those who are leaving,
Your high happy notes providing optimism and assurance of recovery,
Or of a restful sleep enveloping dear ones.
For me, however, at the point of no-return in my pilgrimage,
I hear only the low notes,
Out of time with my quickened pulse,
And lending a foreboding soundtrack to my slow deliberate steps.

But you play for no pay,
Busking in this hospital,
Doing good both night and day.
Yes, you are well known in this place,
Admired for the hours you commit to this space where lives can hang in the balance,
And where your instrument by day is a sharp sleek scalpel,
Invasive in its desire to alleviate suffering,
Your steady, practiced hand rehearsed and well versed in the methodically planned procedure of a surgical concerto.

But out of hours your instrument of choice lends you a voice,
Allowing flourishes and improvisations.
But were you aware that for visitors like me who visited repeatedly,
The clarinet would take on a significance beyond other instruments,
Taking me instantly back to bittersweet memories of visiting my family,
As, in turn, they aged and became unwell and recovered and became unwell again.

Now I am older and a little wiser,
I reflect and ruminate on this period;
My memories of family are more than just hospital visits,
And I wonder if I could ask one thing of you?
Why no Rhapsody in Blue?!

Nature/Nurture
Which one hurts ya?
Born a ***** or raised a *****?
Take your pick.
Mother Nature can be sick,
But so can your mother and so can your father.
Look at yer brothers
Look at yer sisters
All of 'em idiots
None of 'em got jobs
What's your prospects?
A life of desk jobs?
Nah, dealing and stealing
Taking without feeling
That's what you'll do
No dreams of being well-to-do.
You were born poor,
Raised to be poor,
Cos you're forgotten by the government,
No votes to be gained from givin' you a helping hand.
Born poor, stay poor.
No cultural capital
To help cast off the metaphorical manacles
That shackle any sense of aspiration that might give you inspiration
To defy nature
To defy nurture.
------------------------------
I'll prove ya wrong!
I was born poor for sure,
Raised poor is right,
But my folks weren't sick,
They raised me not to be a *****
My bloodline shows no decline
Just not born with entitlement,
So don't judge,
That's just ******* lazy
Don't believe the argument:
Nature versus nurture
I am me, now,
So don't get frenetic about my genetics.
I have free-will
I will pay my bills,
Not be defficient,
But be self-sufficient.
And what about you?
Sat in your Ivory Tower
Indulging in your power to judge those you don't know,
Believing them to be a product line of people scrounging,
Needing hand downs from the Crown
Doing nothing but clowning around,
Smoking dope
Being without hope.
But I will be someone,
And prove you wrong,
So put your patronising way to bed
Coz I'm not lazing away until I'm dead.

Plastic fantastic
Sits in my wallet
Waiting for flirtatious contactless action.

My personal details emanating constantly
From my ruminating flexible friend,
From my ruminating flexible foe.

Never ending debt
Leaves me a slave to a monetary master
Piling on the debt faster and faster.

Battered worn leather houses the card
That screams a constant binary plea,
Begging to be heard by an electric mate.

I need to silence this traitor
- This debt facilitator -
But I'm hooked on its fleeting ability to buy me that which I do not need.

My card constantly screams my personal data,
Broadcasting 1s and 0s endlessly,
Betraying and exploiting me through ruthless efficient binary.

I was possessed by a demon so lazy,
He left the Priest feeling slightly hazy.
He wanted some ecclesiastical action,
But this Demon didn't give him no satisfaction.

My Priest said "you've got to stick it to him!"
So I took us both to the local gym.
I did some cardio and did some weights,
I stayed there until really very late.

Finally, when doing some cross-training,
My chest started straining,
And a voice (not mine) wailed like a Banshee,
"The power of exercise compels me!"

So that was how my Demon was exorcised;
Bloodless, sweaty Holy exercise.
Now I'm a major fitness fanatic
Thanks to forces oh so Satanic!