Bloke

Like a limping anarchist trapped in Ikea,

Disorientated by diversity-inclusive chaos,

I’m a bloke swinging dangerously with old age.

A back-arrow smile, a depressed grunt,

I’m something akin to a Sun’s contradiction.

Is the euthanasia exit this way or that?

At war within myself, my snoring, my piles;

The throbbing gristle now positions vacant.

Nothing like a bloke crying insecure,

The issue more urgent than a pub crawl,

And no good for a matey laugh off.

Falling ill from feeling irrelevant

I’ve lost the child in me, overgrown in tight blue jeans,

A feudal hero to my sorry self.