YOU CAN CALL ME ALF 

(apologies to T.S. Eliot) 

Let's go then, me and you 
when the evening is spread across the sky 
like a casualty lying in the operating theatre. 
Let's go raging through the half-deserted streets, 
let's stay in one of those cheap one-night hotels 
and have breakfast in the fish and chip shop. 
Let's not argue or ask stupid questions. 
Don't worry. Be happy. 

In the room the people come and go 
talking about the new Madonna video. 

There's a yellow smog outside the window 
that makes me want to wear an oxygen mask. 
Do I really want to go outside? 
Have I time to meet all the people that I meet? 
There's work to do, so much to be done 
that I don't know where to start. 
Maybe I'll have some toast and a cuppa tea. 

In the room the people come and go 
talking about Princess Di. 

We're upstairs in the pub and I'm paranoid. 
If I walk down the stairs 
everyone will see the bald patch in my hair. 
- Ya, ya, billiard ball, they’II shout. 
I'll pull my new jacket tightly around me 

and they'll see my middle-age spread. 
- Look at his pot belly ha ha, they'll say. 
It hurts me when they say things like that 
but I'm always too embarrassed to reply. 
It's not until I've spent hours thinking 
that I find an appropriate response. 
I lie in bed wishing I was better. 
My life is like a rubbish bin 
full of polystyrene coffee cups. 

Sometimes at parties I think of clever things to say 
but no-one hears me over the loud music 
coming from the other room. 
People often walk away from me, 
I see them glancing over and making jokes about me. 
I light a cigarette and blow it in their direction. 
They hate being passive smokers. 

I have been in love a few times, yes a few times; 
we held hands, we felt each other in our arms 
but somehow I got lost each time. 
So what should I assume? And do I want to try again? 

In the room the people come and go 
talking about the Olympic Games. 

I see you on Friday afternoon, then Saturday night 
and we talk for a short while, standing side by side
with our arms touching and mine tingling 
and you say: I feel I should know you, somehow. 
Maybe I had too much cake and ice-cream 
because I couldn't think of anything else to say 
so I said: See ya later and walked away. 

And would it have been worth it 
if, after my falafel with the lot 
after some more talk, 
between me and you 
would it have been worth it, after all, 
to make a joke with serious intentions? 
You might look at me as if I was dead 
and say: Nah, you've got the punchline wrong, 
that's not how it goes at all. 

So would it have been worth it 
if I hadn't had those beers and smokes 
that seem to have made me tongue-tied 
and just spent more tirne talking with you? 
I didn't want to show my interest 
in case you turned away and said: 
That's not what I meant at all. 

In the room the people come and go 
listening to Prince on the stereo. 

Now I'm not Prince, was never meant to be 
I've never had a good voice, in fact 
I was told not to sing so loud in the church choir 
and then told not to sing at all. 
But I stood there, making up the numbers and miming. 
So I'd never have the guts to sing one of his songs 
at the karaoke night - that'd be ridiculous. 

I'm getting old, getting old ... 
the only jeans I have are flared. 

Should I put gel in my hair? 
Do I dare eat a pie in public? 
I'll wear my track suit at the beach 
where I'll hear the ghetto blasters 
blasting each to each. 
They don't write songs like they used to 
but they sure play them a lot. 

I watch surfers try to catch a wave 
and one comes up with a condom in his hair. 
Surfs up and the waves are black with white tops. 

I like to linger by the sea 
looking at girls getting sunburnt on the sand. 
I'm walking in my sleep, in the shallows. 
Don't try to wake me - I might drown.


Myron Lysenko
(c)2002