4.The Yellow Vinyl Sofa. (May ’13)

Firstly, as you can tell by the number 4, it’s one of the very early pieces I put down. And yes, it’s raw and uncompromising, but the early days of this written journey were thickly laced with the bluntly confessional. The personal exorcism if you like.

Secondly, if you’re Saturday night is standing on the unsteady shifting sands of a mood that’s neither one way or the other, I’d maybe leave this until you feel on firmer ground. My mood right now is ok, though it has gained a little weight just reading it again, but this is part of “my” tale that I’ve lived several times already. I’m ok reading it just now and the publishing of it in a moment will help with the removal of any added emotional weight gained in its re-reading. If your emotional ground is more quick sand right now, I’d wait until it firms up. Just a friendly word of concern, not a dare implied or otherwise. It will be here in the morning. Promise. Go and sleep easier.

The yellow vinyl sofa was a seventies classic
Like a coal fire burning, toasting current bread,
And Hammer House of Horror on a Saturday night,
Being allowed to stay up going late to bed,

Ah the good old days not like it used to be,
The glories of childhood among your best days,
Carefree and fragrant with the freedom to roam,
And never wanting to be anywhere but home

The yellow vinyl sofa was a seventies classic,
Like a front door slamming and the walking dead,
And a hammered horrors in the house on Saturday night,
The shouting never goes straight through your head,

Ah the good old days not like it used to be,
The glories of childhood among your best days,
Carefree and fragrant with the freedom to roam,
And never wanting to be anywhere but home

The yellow vinyl sofa was a seventies classic,
Like how you held on when it was flying with dread,
Our house of horrors is hammered on Saturday night,
Always I’m left asking, why doesn’t he ever come home dead.

About Jim Laing

The Buddha said there were four kinds of people. Those who run from dark to dark, those who run from light to dark, those who run from dark to light and those who run from light to light. From a life going from dark to dark to having a few years running from dark to light, with scuffed hands and knees from sometimes falling, I may be getting the hang of it now. How it began is not now how it is, I need a quiet space, After the noise of the day, So I take sanctuary in the creativity, And my soul feeds, On sometimes dark, Sometimes light fantasy, And I dare like many to work, But stay up off my knees, To dream, perchance to suffer, But always still to dream. Here are things mostly lyrical and poetic, with nonsense sometimes, reviews and personal musings. The coffees hot and always black. The words not necessarily so.

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