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YND 10: Friends I Cannot Stand

May 13, 2018


This week’s theme is an invitation to the nasty ball, but how will our hosts RSVP? Will Matt and Ben cast off their nice guy shackles? Will Charlie pull a muscle trying to get there early? Is he, in fact, already there? Listen in to find out. 

This week also featured the second piece in Ian’s Listener Residency. 


Friends, I cannot stand — 
This tiresome twist 
Drinking to oblivion, I’ve done before 
But on your birthday 
Is quite remiss of me. 

Was I charming? 
I distinctively recall boorishly announcing the of arrival my favourite waitress 
And blaming the cigarette 
For the vomit. 

Please, Give me time — 
I’ll choose which path to take 
One of drunken bastardness 
Or tedious sobriety. 


I'm told that I'm a free man 
But oppression always says that 
Years ago, I would have been fused to the land 
Giving up everything I grew 
That may be in the past 
But today, I have to do a podcast. 


Master Paul Charles Peyton Higgitt 
Dreamt of a status beyond his limit 
He wanted his last name to last much longer 
He thought both barrels would make him stronger 
But despite a future in learning and law 
He filed the papers with one fatal flaw 

Like a child on christmas 
He rushed to the post 
Opened his present 
While toasting his toast 
And discovered that much to his middle class shame 
He’d gone double-barrelled 
And kept both middle names 

Master Paul Charles Peyton Peyton-Higgitt 
Dreamt of a status that he couldn’t mimic 
A costly education cost him dearly 
He could not stand his family to live so nearly 
He went to the big apple to make big money 
Where he hoped his big name would not seem so funny 


The Coat 

It hangs, 
flowing vessels of muscle, 
and the touch is soft 
like the skin I connect with it. 

The smell it releases 
brings back concoctions 
of deadly potions 
that used to keep me lingering. 

The smell turns to taste 
and sits in the back of my mouth, 
smoothing over buds, 
bringing a familiar flavour. 

As the vessels sway,
the gentle sound of fabric on fabric, 
pulls back memories of sleeves that wisp 
in the wind, like searching fingertips. 

The coat looks old and battered 
like the tree we would always see. 
Watching as things blossomed, 
watching as winter came.



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