#9 Charm for Rage

Forget to drink.
Drain your cells
to desert cracks.
Wrack your spine
in awkward seating poses,
As you eat bad food,
Alone.

Seek out high pitches -
Other people's crisps,
The smug crumple-squeak of
cellophane.
Leave your earphones
at home.
Better: leave them
on the bus.

Wear uncomfortable socks
and cheap pants -
The ones that twist and sag.
Sit next to the man
that everyone avoids -
The one with stale breath
And distance issues.

Set all the clocks wrong
except one,
Then give it to your friend -
The one who likes to hoard.
Lend her your favourite book,
Your new scarf,
And twenty-seven pounds.

Do elaborate favours
for arseholes,
Give your boss's sister
A lift to Kidderminster.
(Unless you live in Kidderminster.)
And let Bob Jenkins make your tea -
He never remembers.

Now walk home from work,
Scarfless and chafing,
Flailing and narrating
at the night.
Be sure to skirt near puddles,
As you stride beside the bus route
that would deliver you
in fifteen minutes.

En route, do not buy milk.

Or bread.

Or toilet paper.

Now, are you ready?
Get home and watch
the worst telly out there,
Trip on other people's cables,
Spin and swear,
Slam foot or fist
(It doesn't matter which)
Into the table:
BAM! BAM! BAM!

Wear the bruises proudly
that blossom in thin skin,
Gaudy medals of
Unstoppable force
Meeting immovable future.

(And don't forget to let
your romantic replacement
friend you on Facebook.)