Saturday, 8 March 2014

Lunchtime is fraught with perils. Here's one.

Where are my chopsticks?
Or “you had one job, Pret.”

I pick out some sushi, and queue with the masses,
I bear unsolicited thoughts on my glasses,

from the cashier (a man with no obvious talent
for seducing the ladies – a bungling gallant),

to the office I wend, bereft of a fiver
but focused on what will absorb my saliva.

But where are my chopsticks? I’m implement-less!
How can I consume my lunch with finesse?

So I track down a fork, eat my sushi old-school
with a culturally irregular, frumpier tool.

Monday, 30 December 2013

Here's a post about a magazine cover that made me cross today.

Magazines show us pictures of ladies’ bods, mocked
and we’re meant to feel sickened and horribly shocked
at the post-baby belly, the whiff of a wobble
the bare-faced ass cheek of a thigh un-remodeled.

If bouncing beach babes are disrobed as disgusting
then we feel less bad when our own jeans are busting.
Thank you mags! You have sanctioned our fallible form!
But did we ask you to have female beauty re-drawn

as a shock-fest, a horror, a laughable mass?
You have come to a terrible logic impasse:
if famous femme bodies are monstrous when flawed
are our own imperfections really, truly ignored?

You’d like us to think you’ve forgiven our rolls
you believe we’ve not spotted you’re making us trolls.
But we notice hypocrisy hiding as hugs
liking ladies is not done by trashing their jugs.

NOW’s the time to fight back and be interceders,
lazy magazines, you have insulted your readers.

Saturday, 21 December 2013

Walking in the Lakes

I'm walking in the fells
breathing deep the hill-top air
savouring the beauty
and letting go my cares
when it comes into my vision
 - a Heaven-fashioned cranny!
Just one minor point,
it looks exactly like a fanny.




Thursday, 19 December 2013

The second in the criminal condiments series

Coleslaw

There’s a garnish that’s often found in the vicinity
of cold meats, of baps; an unholy trinity
concocted of carrot, of shaven raw cabbage
baptised in mayonnaise, in unopposed marriage…

until now. I will not hold my peace
til this horror of sauce will desist and decease!
Its texture is slippy, its taste is abhorrent,
how dare it invade my plate without a warrant?

And there’s one other thing ang’ring me more and more
and that’s when food vendors describe it as ‘slaw’.
We’re not in the Deep South, and this is a ballad
to say ‘I will exorcise you, devil’s salad’.

Saturday, 30 November 2013

A Supreme Being commutes to work

For this post, I've really tried to get inside the head of a tube arsehole.

A Supreme Being commutes to work

The thing you should know before you embark
upon reading my tale, is a truth that is stark.
I’m honestly sorry for all of you folk,
you merest of mortals, who carry the yoke
of ordinariness,
but I solely address
my comments and musings to others like me,
whose importance is close to Lord God Almighty.

When I ride on the bus I favour a seat
that is close to the window – the spot that is sweet.
But what’s certainly not in my anticipation
is the slightest delay in alighting at station
and I’d rather the chap in the aisle to be standing
and swaying for hours if it speeds up my landing
(a wait by closed doors is a small price to pay
if it saves me a second on my celestial way).

When down in the underground, braving the rabble
I’m never deterred by the threat of a scrabble
because pushchairs and suitcases simply dissolve
when I thrust them aside with my mighty resolve.
Once on the platform, and the tube doors spring wide
I simply don’t see why I should stand aside
when a deity’s need to be boarding trumps all!
(if you slip down the gap, the rats soften your fall).

It’s time for the lift, and we’re all crammed inside
(to force myself in is a matter of pride
twasn’t my elbow that made you jackknife!)
and my virtuous bowels are stirring to life
but my sanctified gust is incense for the masses
and their sad little sins purified by my gasses.
When the lift has ascended, I surge for the gate
(whole worlds would expire should I become late)

but it’s so damn unsporting to reach for my ticket
in advance of the tube’s gaping, clamping last wicket   
and the mortals behind me are pleased by the show
while I empty my pockets and cork up the flow.
Now I burst from the station, and pound up the street
the nation must dance to the pulse of my feet
so they dodge and they skip so my pathway is clear
God it’s great to receive all this well-earned god-fear!

Wednesday, 6 November 2013

Cats and coffee

I don't own a cat and I don't drink coffee, but don't let that spoil your enjoyment of today's blatherings:

A bad start to the day

I woke up this morning and tumbled from bed
I misjudged the cupboard and bumped my poor head
I tripped on the carpet and stubbed my big toe
It’s truthful to say that my mood was quite low.

The kitchen was dark and the air thick with silence
til I flicked on the light, and my eyes met with violence
for there sat the cat, head held high in the air,
its fat rear wedged tight in my cafetiere!

My morning thenceforth involved yanking and hissing
but I won’t have a cat’s bum cause me to go missing
the tiniest drop of my first cup of coffee.
But as I sit sipping, my throat has gone frothy…

I think that the cat had a trick up his paw
for I’m rendered unable to take a gulp more
as out of my mouth winds a long strand of fur
and that nasty old feline has started to purr.



© Catherine Lucie, 2013

Thursday, 24 October 2013

Mayonnaise

I'm on tour at the moment and am eating a lot of packet sandwiches, hence the following sentiments:

I hate you, mayonnaise

I open the packet, saliva a-brewing
but the moment I chomp, the whole sandwich is ruined
because plastered throughout, like a coat of emulsion
is a glutinous substance to cause my revulsion…

Wherever there’s food, mayonnaise, you’re there - hidden,
you lurk in my sandwich: you snuck in, unbidden.
You slick up my burger, you skulk near my chips,
you posture as mustard – you’re the craftiest of dips.

I loathe you, I hate you, I can’t stand your taste
you eggy, you slimy, you wobbly paste!
I won’t stand aside, I abhor acquiescing
to a gate-crashing, slippery, commonplace dressing. 

© Catherine Lucie, 2013