Monday, Monday...

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/R._N._Taber

Readers are always asking for the link to my informal poetry reading on the 4^th plinth in London’s Trafalgar Square in 2010 by way of being my contribution to Sir Antony Gormley’s One and Other ‘live sculpture’ project. Be warned, though; the whole thing lasts an hour:

http://www.webarchive.org.uk/wayback/archive/20100223121732/oneandother.co.uk/participants/Roger_T  [NB: Sept 19, 2019 - The British Library confirmed today that he video is no longer available as it was incompatible with a new IT system, However, it still exists and BL hope to reinstate it and make it available to the public again at some future date.] RNT

Now, this tongue-in-cheek poem has been slightly revised since appearing in my collection and on the blog in 2007. I wrote it in 2003. Since then I have retired but…I still hate Mondays!

MONDAY, MONDAY...

Monday morning,

one eye on a glorious dawning

through paper thin curtains

covering us much like a shroud;

hearts stopping, a relentless

ticking of bedside clocks arousing it

to a semblance of beating, 

like a bored child tapping fingers

on whatsoever happens along

to distract from the business in hand

of having it knuckle down

to what’s expected, without so much

as any reward or time off

for good behavior from acting

the epitome of perfection,

if only to impress those who need

(or demand) to be impressed,

best impressions leaving the rest

struggling to keep up…

Oh, but that won’t do, have to show

who’s who, stand tall, be counted

as well worth our salt among so-called

‘betters’ - prove our daily stars

not so far out after all, even if night

skies are more likely to shoot us

in the back, leave us gibbering wrecks

after playing at sex, losing the game,

and waking up with a killer hangover,

contemplating going to work in terror,

more than likely to be gobbled up

by some mad 'n' mean gossip machine

playing you-can-tell-me-I-won’t-tell

that just may have something going for it,

beats an unholy devotion to overtime

no one gets paid or even a thank you so

by immaculate, swivel chairing gods

on six figure salaries and getting a kick

out of fiddling expenses…  

Oh, yes, and all for what? Get laid, 

(so drunk we forget anyway…)

Monday, Monday, GO AWAY

Copyright R. N. Taber 2005; 2014

[Note: An earlier version of this poem appears in  A Feeling For The Quickness Of Time by R. N. Taber, Assembly Books, 2005.]