The faces of the people
Who keep popping up
On my TV and the posters
Plastered all over town
Mean so little to me.
I don’t know their faces
Or which of the races
They ran, and they won
In the running/jumping show
I didn’t watch last year.
They’re giving them knighthoods
And contracts to sell
Corn Flakes and Broadband
And it seems it’s just me
Who really can’t tell
Them from Adam.
It’s the same with musicians
Whose names and tunes
Everyone else seems to know
But which wash over me
Totally pointlessly.
So that I can’t tell
What exactly is an “Adele…”
Or a “Bee-yonk”
Or a dead girl called
Amy…
Because young John and young Jim
Don’t play that kind of thing
On my morning commute’s
Drivetime Show in the car
On Radio Four.
But now I know I’m
getting old…
I was sure that I bought
A loaf of bread yesterday.
But looking around
It was nowhere to be found
At all in the house.
I walked all around
Climbed up and down
The stairs – but all to no avail!
It just wasn’t there
Or anywhere.
So I thought that I’d finally cracked.
Next day, it turned up
In the back of the car
Where I’d put it aside
When sorting out the bits
And bobs of the weekly shop…
Maybe it’s the early signs
Of brewing senility…
Or terrifying dementia…
Or just tiredness and the inevitability
Of oncoming old age…?
But I think I’ll have to give in
Because I’m too tired
To rage
Against the dying
Of Dylan’s proverbial light…
But I know that I am getting old…
I still like to think
That I’m still on the brink
Of the cutting edge
But…
I saved seventeen files
Of some movies I’d made
And when I opened them up
They were all the bloody same.
To my great shame...
So I must be getting old...
But it’s still so much better
Than the other option…
You know the one I mean…
The one of NOT getting any older…
The one where you just curl up…
And die.
Bye, bye...
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