Humbug

A poem written about procrastination written whilst procrastinating over Michaelmas term assignments.

Humbug

 

I sit in the library eating celery and grapes (and feeling depressed).

The celery and grapes would be depressing enough on their own,

but I also have a two thousand five hundred word essay to write.

 

As I wrestle with the sensory might and sublime wit of the Romantics,

 

(That's Romantic with a capital 'R' as opposed to the ‘Love Actually’ kind,)

 

I notice some dyslexisms nestling in my incomplete first draft,

familiar mistakes which still defy orthography after twenty one years of schooling,

and the passive insistence of Microsoft spellcheck.

 

('dyslexisms' is almost certainly not a real word.)

 

A mirage of tutors,

imploring me to proofread,

bends my eyes,

until I regain focus,

again confronted by grapes and celery.

 

I landed on the grapes and celery going through the reduced section of Sainsburys.

They were the only things on offer besides a cohort of out of date 'Christmas Feast' sandwiches,

 

People clearly don't have an appetite for Christmas in mid-November.

 

What is reformed turkey breast anyway?

If it was turkey breast, it would come in breast form,

and anything reformed would no longer constitute a breast.

At least celery and grapes have a kind of organic honesty.

 

It is 2.30am

 

I have now eaten an entire punnet of grapes, a whole celery plant and

have even been back to get, and consumed,

a Christmas Feast sandwich,

 

Not even a festive humbuggery enough to keep at bay an impulse to comfort eat in the face of boredom.

 

The essay is half finished,

but has yet to see its obligation to the grammatical rules of English.

 

I cannot make it.

 

It is a monster grown beyond the control of it progenitor,

and is fast bearing down upon its creator,

with the intent of devouring him whole,

like some fucked up creature in a Shelley novel.

 

But let us not forget who the real monster is.