Category Archives: Getting Mad

Underground Rage

Underground Rage

Underground, overground – just take your pick;
Smog and Monoxide aren’t killing us quick,
Always delays on whatever we ride:
It’s either a breakdown, or a suicide.

“Mind the gap! Mind the gap!”
It is bad for your health
To fall on the track;
Every man for himself!
Each woman and child
In the crush is united;
Every profanity’s being recited;
Limbs lock and lash
In the rush for a seat:
Faith in humanity
Is incomplete.

Find the map! Find the map!
On the road into town
The bus gets a puncture:
The only way’s down:
I’ve tried for a taxi:
The file is a mile –
(This does not relax me, or make me smile).
Central line’s closed
I can’t get to Bank
(What I want now
Is a big Chieftain tank).

“Overground, Overground – EVACUATE!
Dubious package found in section eight!”
Be calm and orderly?
I’ve passed that stage
So it’s time for the onset
Of Underground Rage.
Seething, I curse as I battle the stairs,
Sending ’em flying – briefcases, pushchairs;
“I’ll give you Big Issue!
NO! I won’t chill –
If I had a gun,
I’d be shooting at will
Fuming with fury
I’m ‘evil dictator’ –
I’m Mutant Commuter –
Tube Terminator.

Underground, overground –
Wherever you roam,
London is poisonous. Just stay at home.

 

© Theresa van Straten 2005 All Rights Reserved

 

Don’t get me started. . .

Don’t get me started. . .


I’m angry when I want it NOW and I’m told I’ve got to wait –
(I worry when I get it, that it’s going to be too late);
I’m mad, when on the telephone, a cheery voice implores:
“Please hold the line. . .Please hold the line. . .”
Then plays the fucking Corrs.

I detest all forms of clutter and the swift accumulation
Of statements, bills and paperwork: such dull administration;
Each manilla envelope just brings me to my knees –
As I contemplate the plight of my bank balance – (and the trees).

And. . .
I’m peeved by office politics: the hapless hierarchy,
And its poxy pecking order, down from him, to her, to me –
The bitches and the Yes men: they get right up my nose;
If I ever get promoted, will I end up one of those?

And. . .
I’m cheesed-off at the checkout – (though I’ve very often felt
Empathy with anything on a conveyor belt);
I hate the way they rush me, though I sometimes think it funny,
That day-by-sodding-day, I still return to spend my money.

And. . .
I’m fuming when a vagrant sets up camp outside the bank,
Begging for my ‘change’, (a silly question, to be frank),
Dogs on bits of rope, a can in hand, a fag in gob:
With all the homeless comforts – without a frigging job.

And. . .
I’m furious when women, who pop children out like rabbits,
Teach their offspring nothing but bad language and foul habits,
Then expect the State to subsidise, from cradle unto grave,
The products of the one-night-stands they shagged outside a rave.

And. . .
I’m livid in the knowledge that the man who got my vote,
Snatched my hard-earned taxes, with this promise – (and I quote):
“Education! Education! Education!”, he intoned
(It’s said that short-term memory is shitty if you’re stoned).

And. . .
I’m ticked-off with the taxman, when I pay my bloody due,
Then get a snotty letter, from the Inland Revenue,
Saying that I’m underpaying with regard to my N.I. –
And if I want a pension, I must work until I die.

My anger’s not unfounded: I’m provoked by what I sense:
I rage against the system: it snaps back in defence;
Mirror, Mirror on the wall: it seems that you are sneering,
So I’m angry that I’m angry –
And
that wrinkles are appearing.

© Theresa van Straten 2005 All Rights Reserved