Should’ve known better than to
Check with her mate whether
She’s decked out for all weather,
Whatever, checkmate. Pilates on a plate,
It’s a palaver but the activewear’s finally on:
Leggings, Asics, hair done in a bun
Standard attire so who’s she running from?
Or where’s she running to?
Not a clue, boo.
Keeps rubbing her eyes; no dove, no coo,
No clue why she cries tears dry as jasmine rice,
Or why she relies on building
Sleepy sand castles for eyelash dwelling lice.
Hides the bright lights, and
Exfoliates the bad dreams without cream,
Respirates a yawn,
I’m torn between attempting to ignore
Or submitting to my own inevitable yawn.
It’s incredible, the hacking yakking pinning us in
Pin the tail on the gossip,
She’s spilling sloppy truths
So now’s the time to stop it
Glottal-stop her epiglottis cos
She’s both sides of the conversation:
Little Miss Armrest-hog Ophelia
Opening cans of opinions
Cos she can’t imagine ever breaking
Through a Velux glass ceiling
When she’s as fresh faced as Rashford,
But can’t afford to be rash…
Yet she’s so opinionated and brash,
Patience meet your match
Fucking definition of a verbal sweat rash.
Category: Poetry
June 13th Commuter
Dear Doctor Eggman with
The approximate egghead
All shiny with sweat and snail glue spread,
Almost perfectly round,
Who needed his dough? Who shaped his bread?
Got the millet grain beard, rust on the skillet.
He’s silly & willingly wearing
Skipping rope loops looped over his head,
Chunky bucket handle Headphones
Would drag him down to the depths.
Embedded his ears in ill-fitting earphones
Caresses and fusses with his hi-tech smartphone
Ring on his finger implies a sweet moan
But his hunched over posture cries leave me alone…
To atone for rocking a tweed jacket on this sunny day,
Fucking sack it off, just pack it away
I’m getting heat stroke and we’re going the same way,
Can’t look away from the soft sweat stains
On his picnic blanket shirt,
The one tetrised with squares
Careful yogi don’t get jokey
Cos I don’t think this Pudsey
Can handle a real bear.
Pickernick shirt,
Pick n mix dirt skirting cuticles like fur
Couldn’t be further from the cubicle
Heading for the sofa, which he clearly prefers.
Pre-prepped his crepes,
Stage managing each step
So his brown leather boots boast scuff marks on purpose.
Purportedly supportive of bovine extortion
And the supple contortion of the little wean’s skin…
He looks up at me and gives me a frown
Watches as I jot down:
How now male sow?
Can’t we Kowtow this row?
Cos I’m allowed to wow crowds
With this crown of highbrow know-how
Despite having a head crowded by clouds.
For London
This is a public service announcement
Denouncing the trouncing of freedom
And the weighing up of human life in ounces.
I can’t be the only one sick of counting corpses,
Keeping calm and carrying on despite the carrion?
There’s no accounting for these actions
Cos dead civilians are never a ticket to the kingdom.
So many confused youths
Gone from Peter Pan to Pettigrew
Listened to someone else’s hate
And let grow, settle and brew.
I always check in, but I want to check out
I no longer know what this world is about
When the end game is watching blood
Trickle from a child’s mouth
Silently mouthing words she’ll never say,
‘Where’s my mum?’ saved for a rainy day
Eyelid close, breath fades away
And rain trickles down from skies that are grey.
But we won’t forget them, that’s what I say,
Because we stand together
Yeah, that’s the London way.
May 31st Commuter
Probe the snoozer loosely,
Don’t wanna rub him up the wrong way,
Or brew my tea with loose leaves,
Re: that, I feel strongly,
Cos it’s my way or the highway.
He’s just dozy from the high grade
Wouldn’t put it past him, look at his grin
Dances on his lips, as if it’s too full to get in.
Covert smirks cover up subconscious dirty work,
From Freudian slips to ignorant quips,
Quickly flicks his eyebrows up as if offered
Something he can’t refuse,
Delectable treats valid for a one time use;
We’re usually used to bits of loose food,
But hedge your bets,
Let’s see what he can do.
Cos he’s got the face of a kid,
But the body of a Sid,
Or a Si, or one of those sorts of guy
You know, more massive than me
But too heavy to fly. Go on, give it a try.
He’ll kick up the dust daubed onto his knees,
Capture a gust with wings of Plaster Paree,
Hitting heights only he can see in his dreams
Before the paper turns to mulch
Runs through his hands like cream,
He wakes up with a start
And finds himself still stuff in his grubby blue seat.
May 30th Commuter
Weight-watching, womanly wise guy
Thighs wide as surprised eyes that’ve spied
Spelt flour and sandy bread made of rye.
Mind the gap between your belt holes
Watch the throne with empty, iron bowls
Skinny’s tasty but it ain’t food for the soul.
Pinch the thigh gap as if it’s not all that,
As if it’s all claptrap,
As if it’s just daydreams from dunces in caps,
It’s time to cap that, stack it and stomp that,
It’s time time for bad moods to meet the bottom of her shoes
Miss Martyr in the Doc Martins
Bloody Mary red as if she’s just startin’,
But might call it quits and pack it in
Overdressed in an overcoat
Puffing in a puffa jacket, take it off, jack it in
No breathin’, just wheezin’,
No hearin’, headphones over-ear in here,
Head searing beneath a black woolly hat,
Eyes bleary underneath sheepskin wraps,
She blinks slowly, computer says no
But saddled with jetlag; two dark eyes
Sit like the last minstrels in the bag.
And they meet me each time my gaze strays
To the disappointingly straight face
That disapproves of the words that I create,
Throwing me shade, so I’m eclipsed for days
Day dreaming the meaning of her foul, shadow play.
May 26th Commuter
Invest in a vest, no vested interests
He just wants to be the best mess
That he can be, better than all the rest,
Skin pressed red,
Pink like a raw chicken breast,
Or salt cooked salmon
Little curls of grey ramen
Growing right out of his chest,
Armpits too,
Cultures growing into something rude
A clump of nosy neighbours
Doing no one any favours
Wafting exotic scented flavours –
Au du ‘enemy of bathers’
The musk of sun ripened labour
Get dat cash in hand playa,
Stuff it in your bumbag, fannypack,
Wads of cash, rubber band goes snap.
Panting with a Lab’s lap,
Never had the last laugh cos he’s a real thinker,
One arm crossed, the other upright
If we brake now might fuck up his whole life.
Might just fill the hole in his life
But not the hole on his head,
Pretty tired Friar Tuck, no luck,
Partially bald, silver wings garland the hole
Hiding ears like Victorian ankles,
Better drop the anchor so alls well that ends well
Getting off at Stockwell,
The train don’t stop well
His heart swells, stops, drops and rolls
Call it the final toll of the bell.
May 22nd Commuter
Tip, tip, tip, little fingers tap,
Tube stop Anderson .Paak smacking
The rim of an imaginary skin,
Beating meat on his knee, 1, 2, 3…
For he’s squeezing out a beat like it’s fresh orange juice,
Hair pulled back, ponytail loose,
Slumped all kinds of louche –
It’s the end of day, got nothing to lose.
Decadent deviant, misread miscreant,
Creating a melody not meant to be read,
As thoughts sing indelibly inside of his head,
Hands steady, ready, then ready to go,
Treble clef after clef, humming note after note
I follow the rhythm like I’m reading a quote,
No way to paraphrase the fading phases
Of his creative daze, been thinking for days.
Ruminating, germinating, Raybans aviating,
Mirrored on the front so
It’s my own face that holds my gaze as I perambulate.
Perfecting the written reflection of his
Cherry blossom blazer, dirty with patterns
Like a Japanese spring,
The flowers are falling
And cover him like lint.
He grins a self satisfied, yellow grin
And I hope to God that his pillow has a mint.
Can’t rescind that which cant be undone,
Just as you can’t run after crossing your legs
Even in jeans, the question still begs
An answer to a figure of four cross
Held from the first to his last stop –
Sew him back together when the
Pins and needles make him drop.
May 17th Commuter
She’s getting pepped up and preppy,
Peppering her tongue with a full can of Pepsi
Candidly handling brand spanking new plans
That involving necking all of the black can,
She zero sugar reppin,
Ring pull rippin,
Cross-legged sittin
Won’t surprise me if she gets indigestion
Or a heart burn in her muscular engine.
Must be a Multipack buying legend,
Packing down multiple cans in a session.
The skin on her face eventually regressing,
Second guessing the sugar coated spots,
Hot to pop like pop tarts that have gone off.
Bland blonde locks hanging lankly
Eye’s fixed on her reflection so blankly,
Where are her thoughts, who robbed the banky?
And wiped her mind clean
With a tissue not a hankie?
What’s the matter? Couldn’t afford Bounty?
Bountiful bounty, it’s a peg leg affair
In those pinstripe leggings that expose spikes of leg hair,
Unshaved for days, pays to be savoir faire,
Call it pirate flair or Blackbeard charm
No need to pass coins from your palm to her palm
It’s like she’s making a point
That we won’t come to harm,
Cos she hardly looks barmy, just aloof
Never smarmy, she just smarting at the garms
Garnered by the rush hour army.
May 10th Commuter
Mister open top Costa coffee cup
Swallows a slurp and coughs it back up,
Definitely worth flagging up, even if
The cardboard cup is about to give up,
It might not be much – and it isn’t tough –
But there’s nothing new in slurping without burping.
I wonder if his arm is hurting
Pressed up against the glass
Mashed up against silica with sass
All smushed up like old mash.
No measles there, the glass shows no rash,
Maybe I was rash or maybe I was rushing
When I started rubbing crayons over the bark
Watching the A4 paper darken
As though I’m colouring in my eyes,
Let the dams burst
It’s a technicolour cry.
Screw this guy for loosing this tide,
Can only guess at what he hides inside
Looks like he runs on the side,
Implied by a fidgeting Fitbit on his wrist
Step count at risk if continues to sit
All curled up as if taking a kip,
Spirals his spine to a snail shell design
Mr Curly-Wurly, Ouroboros Omanyte,
Burly, surly, all night surely staring at omastars
Glimmers of glitter scratching the
Magnetic strip on midnight’s credit card
Drowned out by the backlit guitar
That vibrates his eardrums
Through tiny plastic conches:
3rd party earbuds manufactured in China,
Call it a guess, call it one of my hunches.
May 9th Commuter
Turtle shell granny hunched up in a hump
Jiggles and jumps when the train hits a bump
Or maybe she’s fidgety from doing a bump
Dabbing up each and every last crumb,
Life’s too short to not have some fun.
Hair like cactus bristles, dry and brittle
Colourless like limited edition skittles.
A head of dead coral, perfectly coiffured
Before her morning coffee,
I’m sure it is, it must be,
Bet she stops when coughing
Wears a vaguely worried look
That wouldn’t be out of place on any grandparents’ face
Anxious and apprehensive, too many screens
Too much tapping, not enough nattering,
Gallivanting or gossiping, golly goshing
Or soft joke joshing.
Either that or way too much boshing,
But what do I know, I ain’t a boffin!
Ankle biting pleats expose her feet
To the meaty carriage draft,
So solid it was probably crafted in clay
By ghost to a song..
Regardless of that, she whistles along
Never one to belong
Especially in those plastic white daps
But damn sure she’s always keen on the last laugh.
Stories On The Sofa 