poem for one’s thirties

From Exurb1a or Exurb2a.

main channel – https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCimiUgDLbi6P17BdaCZpVbg

It’s true that I have compromised on my youth to some degree,
On rare but real occasions I clean the house these days
and instead lumps of pot, prefer just honey in my tea,
Utilise the bottlebank,
Choose a salad over a lunchtime wa-
Can be found out of bed before three,
Weird changes, I’ll grant you, not quite where wannabe bohemian me intended to arrive, but I survived, I think,

Of course I miss the younger person’s unparalleled Libertine bliss of having zero obligations save for going out on the p*ss,
Of being able to exclusively eat *REEEEEDACTED* and beans on toast for a week and not wondering if that might be slightly nutritionally remiss?

And as a younger man when I would encounter those strange older aliens, old as I am today,
Their lives sounded duller than sloth farts,
Victorians who’d stay home on sunny weekends time to time
or excitedly talk about handing in their tax returns before the deadline,
But they forgot to mention that once you get here, it really isn’t so terrible,

Sitting around thinking that was kinda a hard week, it’d be really nice to spend a Saturday getting high to Captain Beefheart and baking apple pie
and realising
oh it’s Saturday and I’m an adult,
I’ll just do that then,
Encountering a problem so abysmal it would’ve broken 17 year old you into little pieces of Styrofoam,
Freaking out a little
Then remembering
oh I’m an adult,
I guess I’ll just solve this on my own,
Or being old enough to know when to ask for help, and feeling much better for that,
Or having a cat,
Having a cat is great,
Having my cat is great,
She’s not for sale,

Or trying to listen more than one talks, or voting, or actually learning to say, in the kindest possible tone, ho hum, you’re clearly full of sh*t, I’m bored and going home,
Having the sense to check in your brain now and then, and announce at your discretion
Aight, it’s getting kinda weird in here,
I think I’d like to talk to someone in the mental health profession,
A little less obscene, finally at least vaguely interested in
basic dental hygiene,
This strange temporal crusade
of discovering actually the bed looks better made,

If you’re coming this way too, I recommend it,
one foot then the next, ageing, mellowing,
Of a Friday night sometime around 33 walking back from the bar
and without warning or fanfare, suddenly realising at last you probably might know just who and what you are,
Because there is a self down there,
a creature that wants things, is scared of things,
That will not allow you to let passing comment go
just because you say so,
If it hurt, then it hurt,
And if for no reason you start dreaming of Argentina
it didn’t come from nowhere,
like, maybe you should go there?

What if we’re here just to be here?
Near to the people one would like to be near,
To not go gentle into that good night
and remain at raves until start of day
but also watch out for sleep deprivation,
hydrate frequently
and to remember that the cynics claiming you can’t fall in love in the first two minutes of meeting someone
are not just dull
but jaded, miserable chucklef*cks
who’d rather spend a lifetime in a sterile titanium box
than admit that life is highly unfair, yes,
but sometimes,
some days,
the most wonderful things happen for absolutely no reason,

Ageing is a small price to pay for getting to enjoy a contentment one didn’t see coming,
when you realised growing up really isn’t so bad,
One’s pride a little humbler and a heart less fraught and armour-clad,

But Mum and Dad,
Your offspring as I am, may I dare;
deep with gratitude for those years of unerring love and care,
Tying up my shoelaces and coiffuring my hair,
However mature I might endeavour to become, or wise as the years require,
I will never buy a f*cking air fryer,
I draw the line at fad kitchenware,
Not if it spits out equations for quantum gravity and God pops down and says, "Oooh I thought I left that there,"
Ya’ll both can kiss my derriere,

Please stop texting me,
I won’t buy a robot cooking pot,
Would sooner tie my kn*b in a sailor’s knot,
Or rectally insert and apricot,
Green eggs and spam and Sam-I’m-not,
Not even for soup or ratatouille,
Nor cauliflower or chop suey,
Not if it can simultaneously jerk me off and play Banjo-Kazooie

I have an oven.
I have an oven.
I have an oven.
You’re in a cult.
I have an oven.
F*ck off.

(And if you’re STILL reading for some masochistic reason, sorry about not posting much on the main channel of late. Working on a bit of a larger project this time around, can’t wait to share it with you. Well, obviously I can wait because I’m waiting right now, but you know what I mean, it’s figurative, you’re always picking on me like that, stop it.)