last minute packing

It's too late in the night and I haven't yet packed
I want to take some jeans up
on my brand new singer
I want to wash my hair
and shave my legs
and pluck my eyebrows
Oh I wish I didn't care

about these things
How I wish that I could grab
a small bag
ten minutes before going out through my door
in the morning
after deep long sleep
quick shower
good breakfast
I'd stuff the small bag with just a few clothes
maybe one book
maybe just one pad, one pen
But no, not me

five books at least,
crochet wool and hooks,
clothes for every likely event
writing things- more than a few
change of shoes
slippers too
I'd take my guitar if I could
and the sewing machine, that would be good

God forbid I should get bored
whilst I'm away,
Or that I may sit
and not do
anything

Going away brings me more aware
Of my self, my discomforts inside
Going away from the familiar homescape
means I'm coming along too
for the ride

perhaps I can risk feeling present
being in the here and now

five books or none,
I can't escape
inside my bag of things,
the presence of reality will still be there
following
profound
and constant

here and now
there's always now
the present
presence
and me

This Saturday Night City - a poem

Pink piles of jumble
Half finished things
Came home from the making of clothes
And all I want to do now
Is sit here and sing

I'm going out to dance tonight
With a random collection of souls
And I'm going to try not to drink a drop of booze-
Just get high from the shaking of my bits and my bones

If only I didn't care what they thought
I'd run around the club like a child
Wearing pyjamas and wellies and glitter
Being young and old and me and free and wild

But I know I'll have a couple, or more
And try to mould in to the norm
Talking and smiling the empty chat,
And avoiding depth. To conform.

We won't dance until we're pissed enough
And in case you should think we're genuinely
Letting ourselves go,
Risking the freedom-flow of authenticity,
We'll take the piss out of our own dance
Or pretend we're really cool and edgy on the floor
Cos, "look at me, I'm fuckin' 'it'"
"I'm the life and soul"
"I'm hardcore!"

The same pattern repeated throughout the whole city
Total drought of authenticity
Across the pubs and clubs and bars
This UK Saturday night

And though it bores me to crying sometimes,
Alone in the toilets,
I find myself conforming still-
Like an inwardly terrified teen
Norming myself in,
Squashing my truth out
'Til we're well and truly out-of-it!

So that then, at least,
I've got my excuse
For being wild and free
(And a little bit like
The real me)

Through the rowdy Wayhay! crowds,
I overhear a nearby bloke, who says it all:

"It's not really me mate, it's not me,
It's only the booze,

You see?"