Flip-flop, opposite of a soft top
Covered in a pattern like raindrops
Call it a platinum crockpot,
Or call it what it is:
A big, important metal box,
Fingers crossed no one touches the locks
But his twiddling thumbs…
Look like they’re from pandora’s stock;
Stocky, stubby and tubby,
Fingernails grubby with a thin smear of dirt
Sneering a grin within a keratin yurt,
Not a fan of a file, but usually so alert
When it comes to luring alluvial fuel,
Fingers in the ground like roots
Jaundice from tobacco packed zoots
Cos it’s fire in the book not in the booth,
Page after page uncovers a truth
That you never thought you’d knew,
Unlike the news, which is never new
And bubbles in the background of everything we do.
Paperback folded back until he snaps the spinal glue
Tears out the pages, Commuter confetti
Nothing else to do,
Except sit back in fifty shades of black,
Sweat glands making their mark on his back,
Gold ring pinned into an ear thats been pinned back
Flatter than a flat cap,
It’s like two ears have just disappeared,
Imagine that. Still, time to face facts
Cos in fact that facet is now lacking
All substance and backing, factually static
His hair flops, erratic,
Possibly a deliberate tactic
Still doesn’t detract that when ears go
They slim his face and streamline his nose
Until that shark fin snorter
Slices its way through the aerodynamic flow
To the end of this sentence
And the end of this prose.