Ten damn stops until the end of the line,
The grape on the vine where X marks the spot.
Try and spot the lesser-spotted leopard skin blouse:
Is she mutton dressed as lamb or an
Overdressed, jam distressed dormouse?
Playing house inside tannin stained teapots,
When it’s only 5 o’clock and she’s already
Dressing madder than a hatter whose lost the plot
Too late to change her top
Too late to change her spots or her stripes,
You’re damn right, marching overripe
Hair into a tortoiseshell brooch.
Slowing her approach to make an impression
Impressing in a cotton pelt as sheer as Shere Khan’s direction
Straight to the top and don’t ever stop
Except to stop the rot.
Keep tutting with your glottal stop
Tainted posh, lips painted rot.
That’s German for red, which is the colour of
The blood that she coughs.
I’ve seen the hanky, diagnosed it, now thank me.
This ain’t no hanky panky,
I want some of that cash you got in the banky,
Legs short not lanky, saggy scarf hanging,
Tassels hassled by the carriage breeze
Banking the cliff of her hips,
Suede ankle boots will never slip
Just like ships that’ll never sink,
Who else thinks that logo clad tote bags
Are totally totemic baggage, iconoclastic
And plastic. Masticating the muscles
Of her shoulder, forever getting older,
Depend on that like the weather getting colder,
But unwanted like a cold caller getting bolder.
Should’ve told her, that the signal from the iPhone in her hand
Resonates on a dangerous bandwidth,
But it’s what she listens to the band with,
Plugged into an iPhone I.V., a shrinking violet
Slowly hidden beneath apple’s poison ivy.
Tag: bars
24th January Commuter
She’s nipsy-nipsy, oh so tipsy,
Bar shift over overly early,
Po-faced, no Dipsy.
Tinky-Winking like La La Land
But no tips on the bar where the jar-jar stands.
Check out that stance, hot pants sentry,
Sent to guard train entries with
Knee high black socks and the 21st century.
Wonder if she sees me seeing her,
The phone in her hand might as well say
‘Do not disturb’.
Hot blood vessels snake
Up exposed thighs, from the toe to
The heel and then up to the eyes,
Exposing each capable capillary
Lifeforce artillery, papercut distillery,
Silently standing so still it’s verging on inverse versatility
Some static mannequin-type anonymity.
Come on a minutey, for all intents and purposes
She’s intensely focussed on the proclivity of
Low hanging fruit, the pockets that sag like there’s nothing to lose. If only she knew.
Cos short shorts lead to all sorts of
Bertie basset thoughts and liquorice storms.
But of course you can’t force meteorological remorse
Onto the innocence of youth. I mean she’s
Looking mean and meaning business in
A green bomber jacket the colour of a
Golden Virginia tobacco packet.
It’s fucking one degree above zero and
she needs to sort it out, pack it in,
Showing way too much skin…
Now that’s not misogyny, it’s just
A legitimate citizens concern that
When she leaves, she might actually freeze
17th January Commuter
Fat fingers rub the train ticket,
The ink all starts to bleed.
It bends like rich tea biscuits,
When they’re dunked in tea.
See bastards will curse faster when he grabs the last first class seat,
Watch him risk it like a rich kid
Ditching class, cos he’s second class
Bald as brass, cheeky monkey, change of tact.
Freebasing lactic acid cos he’s not gonna run.
Which means there’s no more need for the hot air in his lungs
Jolly jaunting northerner
Having fun
When far flung.
But still undone by unpicked stitches
That line the inner lining of his linen jacket
Don’t bother packing, it’s the one he meets in,
He eats in, he fucks in and sleeps in,
Cos London is a city full of unoriginal sins.
Thinks he’s the prince of this world
A Jacomo jock, dove flocking, rock blasting,
Master of the universe paying in diamonds and pearls
Book two nights for work and one more for a girl,
His wife’ll never know cos he’ll give a
Fake name to the girl.
His signature dish finished with a twist and a twirl
And a flourish to nourish his blushing desires:
Out of the marital bed and into the fire.
Chalk up one to the liar, lying silently
Wondering if he should’ve told her
That tomorrow morning
She’s getting the cold shoulder?
Maybe that’s why he’s sweating?
Or perhaps he’s perspiring from all my peering and prying?
But spying is just another form of lying
That gets you ahead
And if you ask the right questions
It might give you an edge. For example:
‘Why’s his hair lying so flat on his head?’
Best guess, gambled on the wetness of wet look gel
And overwatered the flowerbed.
Steady on, don’t go wrong, don’t forget to brush your tongue
When you’re flapping your gums and those big pearly whites,
Flashing LED teeth at the pick of the night,
His shiny smile shinier than the pearl on the ring
That he gave to his wife
Stories On The Sofa 