Hispanic greaser gleefully creases his greasy hair
Running four fingers and a bike chain through there,
Cool dude with a complex complexion
Cos what I see is a reflection of my inherent racial detection
Or lack thereof and the resulting insulting inflection…
Soz bout that mate, humble pie on my plate,
Guess I’m in more of a state than your leather jacket –
Not a scuff or mark that needs patching!
No supple skin for plastic whims,
Got that concerned hand on his chin,
Concentrating on the consternation he feels
For the future he’s facing.
Slick back ya hair, ya hear?
Draw the midnight curtains near,
Flap those blackbird wings, one flick and the
Beak clicks for the raving raven nevermore.
Hope I’m not undermining your whole James Dean thing…
Chunky gold ring, straight outta Brompton,
Compost the compote, give it a strap and call it a watch.
Black strap wrapped around a wrist that bounces
In time to his bobbing leg, hobbling along
Or needs new shoes cobbling?
Probably plodding along in plimsoles with no bottom,
Does he knows it’s raining, or has he forgotten?
Window wipers for the glasses lens,
Rectangular rims, I’ll call ’em eye TV,
Highlighting the heightening ease
With which he can see.
He’s got film noir eyes, black hole pupils
Queen each disc, draught for draught,
Draft for draft, I’m being daft, had the first laugh
Now I’ll have the last.
Tag: Commuter
March 28th Commuter
He’s so well read, he wants to talk like TED,
Crossing the road of life with Super Ted,
Spotting the hedgehog bodies hogging the edge –
Life’s black and white, so use the zebra crossing instead.
Sweeps the product through the hair on his head,
Well fed with Timotei, young Timothy styles it skilfully,
Swoosh, slip down to the 5 o’clock shadows
Hanging over the lake like evening midges
Squidgy cheeks, pudgy eyelids through which button mushroom eyes peek,
He can’t speak when he’s biting his lip
Clipping the tip of his tongue with an enamel paper clip,
Gyrates the hips and slips shoe tread wider,
Legs spread like a compass measuring angles,
The olive green chinos stretch tighter
Dividing the gentile genitals so two veg and meat don’t overheat.
Groaning Verona, these two genial gentlemen
Generate products even a genius genie couldn’t recall…
Left hand dangles, fingers curled not mangled,
Managing to handle the curse of manhood:
Namely, blaming the bitterness of wormwood
On the bittersweet firmness of today’s
Gastric banding fabrics and their sadistic
Lack of give and elastic.
March 24th Commuter
Does she self-scan her barcode knees,
Overstretching the underused jet-black jeans,
Two dark, skinny piano keys
Playing out the white skin beneath.
Bequeathed her tongue to her cheek
Cheekily chewing the juicy fruit
Pellets shaped like individual teeth.
Gnash those gnarly pearls little girl,
Keep that muscle in the underworld
Trap that chatty Persephone like a pearl.
Recline the repose, ankles exposed,
Doesn’t fancy wearing socks I suppose,
Or just supporting the trends en vogue
AWOL wooly tootsie mittens gone rogue
Splash the rouge on your lips,
Don’t wanna see no lick, smack and kiss,
But I’ll admit I’d be remiss if I missed the chance
Of enjoying something over which
I could listlessly reminisce.
You get the gist, gesticulating these verbal
Articulations, penetrating your concentration
Helping you to relate to unrelated primates
To whom a seconds thought is too much to give.
Take little miss stonewashed shirt and shit,
A denim darling starring in a parka
Where’s the red paint firestarter?
Fuck the faux fur, this is Sparta!
You gotta barter for a bigger part if you wanna
Make an impact from the start, no brain fart
Pick your personality from the a la carte
And sit back down as the delayed train
Moves past far too fast.
March 23rd Commuter
He holds the whole world in his hand
Perfectly pinched between the finger and thumb-span
Turns up the brightness, modern day Atlas,
Battling the buffer curtailing the show he covets.
Carving an idol to idleness, graven images
Engraved into irises by fruity viruses.
If one a day keeps the doctor away
Then by the 6s he’s practically undead,
Kept alive by the backlit blue illuminations
That dehumanise him in bed.
Doesn’t even nod his head,
Just breath after breath – steady, steady
Silently static, mr anti-erratic,
Pneumatically pneumonic,
Fresh air is the tonic,
No tectonics for the Teutonic,
Just tramadol for Sonic. Or some chronic,
To take the edge off the chronicles chronicled in his cranium.
Hair spread thin like the last of the butter,
Like or lump it he ain’t no crumpet,
Just crunched up, hunching,
Probs Pret A Manger lunching,
Curled in the corner,
Thumb in the socket, Jack Horner,
Bored with Law and Order,
Ordered the headphones from Bose
White plastic shellac sounds silent on the underground –
Shit, here comes the climax to the show,
But – wait – No! No! No!
You’re taking the piss with the buffer’s ebb and flow,
Where’d the fucking wifi go??
Who’s the real killer?
I guess we’ll never know!
March 22nd Commuter
Fresh press the chinos,
They’re so benignly beige,
Please ignore his cover
And start flipping each page,
Pays to be patient
Says the doctor to the saint,
But staying so latent?
Well, that just comes with age – like,
Sandpaper stubble subbed in for soft skin
Or clothes in the dryer instead of hanging in the wind.
Rescind the winding whines of wheedling strife
Cos the logo on his backpack promises
A ‘unique concept for a highly active life’
Living the Hi-Life, ain’t got no high tops –
Pops rocking reeboks in titanium white,
And yeah they look nice, but I wonder
What they’d smell like if I took a peek inside?
Let’s just take a step back and say
‘The thought alone will suffice’.
Nice, crisp shirt, not too loose, not too tight
Covered in white dots and buttoned right to the top,
Cos when his fingers start fumbling
You know they never stop.
Feet crossed but legs not; dozing, posing
Specs on his nosey, strung up with white string
Which composes his clothesies,
Cagoule, cap and all.
February 27th Commuter
I broke my wrist last week, so haven’t really been corpus mentus on the commuter poetry front.
Back now though:
Outer space backpack, supernova shoulder strap
Yellow-green explosions painting her with sassafras
Secrets of the universe asking for a piggy back.
Black hole seeks like soul
For fun times and ‘mo,
Must enjoy watching me swallowing your goals.
Holes in her black jeans,
Acutely angular Wranglers hanging
Knock-kneed at the knee seams
Obtusely obscene, if you know what I mean.
Sitting in a coat the colour of old cream,
Faux fur from a gopher that drowned in a stream
Hands in the pockets of a shabby polar bear
That’s sprawled out on the seat.
Umbrella at her feet, Cinderella at the door
Picking out the pumpkins she wants to take to court,
Sporting New Balance bought fresh from the store,
Shiny from the rain drops falling outdoors.
Precipitation precipitates her choice of threads of course,
Can’t prepare, laissez-faire,
Tries to balance a blank stare
Atop those skipping stone cheeks,
Flat, round and pallid, like you’d find at the beach
But always out of reach, like an acne cream
For the marks on her cheeks.
Adolescent hieroglyphics fade over time
Once goaded by rhymes,
Childlike innocence bang out of line.
P’raps that’s why
Her bangs hang over her ears:
All the better not to hear you with my dear –
But pull back the fringe, so she can see me
Seeing her hurt, seeing her pain.
Thought the tears on her cheeks
Were nothing more than rain.
30th January Commuter
Cross legged leggings suspend fake leather leggys
In plasticine webbing, shiny and taut.
Puckered lips from the lemon tort,
A citrus blemish caught out and worn outdoors,
Can’t explore the great outdoors behind self-closing doors.
Black hair, feathered like Raven feathers,
Extra volume, very clever; too clever
By half. Too smart by a quarter.
Watch the silver bangles jangle
That her boyf probably bought her.
I’m pressured to make these presumptions,
It takes a certain kind of gumption, like wearing
Gummy rubber boots to a black tie function.
Doc Marten’s stomping the junction,
So shiny I can see my face in ’em
So shiny I wanna eat my lunch off ’em
Clapping the ham, applauding the meat
Tapping the letters into a text,
Better yet,
Call it a love note to a soon to be ex,
Time to reset and see what’s next
Cos the text that she wrote,
Left hearts broke
As though it’s murder she wrote.
Hid it so well under her black winter coat
Sniffing so well all the white winter coke,
Or maybe she’s sick and just cannot cope
With such a big winter coat; it’s far too warm,
Sweaty and alluvial, can’t wait to be born
From this metallic womb, silver spoon,
Stainless steel room, booming rumours
Chasing each station, burning tinder relations
It’s a fishy equation,
So Pisces she can’t see the fella.
Squinting those eyes at the guy’s, ay Ella?
Stirring things up a bit mrs paella,
Out of this world, Interstellar,
Digs the dark not the stars, clear night, no weather
Dunno whether she’s into selling the soul
She keeps down in the cellar.
19th January Commuter
He’s reading the Evening Standard,
As standard. Not the metro; this guy’s
Got standards for the words that work
Into his brain, percolating and straining the
Stories circling the socket
Plugged into the mains.
Backup now, it’s time to explain:
See how he balances that wooly hat on his head?
Like a fine china tea serving set
Or some other thing that’s the best thing since sliced bread.
It sits low and wide, radar ears spread
With callous curls of wooly butter.
Dare he stutter some retort, or break off from the report
Exhorting the assorted gaseous gases snorted from cars like Fords,
When this denim clad chap reclines back
And smacks his bag on my man’s page turning hand,
Blam! He stares him down,
A momentary frown…
Belligerently buried deep beneath the ground,
As though he’s grinding up the beef
Watch the bolognaise go its separate ways
From the comfort of his seat.
Hope he’s sitting comfortably
In his dark cargo jeans, clean yet faded.
Around the knees, who clapped the chalk
Or scribbled and then erased it?
There’s so many pockets, it’s amazing.
I bet the things they’re containing are amazing!
Product lines ranging from baccy to biscuits,
To lighters and tiny bottles of whisky,
Out of date train tickets and their receipts,
Rolling papers and an accumulator or three
Can’t forget his winnings:
A handful of change, a slag heap of pennies.
11th January Commuter
All these Converse allstar crossed loving legs,
Laces tight, hair thin on top of his head,
Smudgy like ochre; thin wisps from a
Sour cigarette smoker with lemon teeth.
Lungs must be broken, no clemency
For a Bronchial retreat,
Each life line a fading map
Underneath the palms clasped in his lap,
Both palms clasped in a reverse handclap,
Like a backhand hi-five turning a lap
Spinning around and then falling flat –
Bang banging, crash crashing
Little kids football blasting
Smashing double glazing glasses, lasting
Longer than the warranty should warrant.
That style’s old and nowhere near current
And his eyes drift gentle as jellyfish in a current,
Currently counting the coins of his currency
Gotta be hard to see when your eyes
Are brown as two copper pennies
Cheaper than gold fish, each on a solo mish
Inside their own individual Petri dish.
These watery aquariums,
I’m getting kinda wary of em,
Real demon headmaster vibes,
Freudian slips into fraudulent lives.
He’s living a lie.
I’m living a lie.
We all live a lie until the day that we die.
It’s the only thing left that makes us feel truly alive
Give a try, yeah? Just like this guy!
The one comprised of the Crayola crayon colours
Of a passing pastel sunrise
Autumn turns to winter upon his chin
The grey is patchy, but he won’t apologise,
No he won’t apologise, for not using hair dye.
January 6th Commuter
Single sided cross-seat conversations,
All chat, no listening, so fast
It’s blistering these listerine gums flapping like
Cross rail acceleration,
The words that she’s saying
Speed of light dissertations
Dissing the celebrations
Of those responsible for
Bad decision making,
Reliable plan faking
And rent taking vampires
Staking the benefits claimants
And their clairvoyant claims
That the cash can’t sustain em.
Vicky line, oval face,
Blue eyeshadow, all on her face
Framed like a portrait,
With an East London accent
Not how the tv actors portray it
Not how they say it in stories and tales,
So torrid they sell, paper after paper,
Murdoch making more paper,
Crown the top Trump kingmaker
Time to crush all these front page time wasters.
Must be hot in her hijab
She’s got the gift of a sharp gab,
Mad as some queen mab,
Now throw out that elbow
And give me dab.
Shaking and spearing the faults of the
Season
It’s rainy and cold, it gave me a cold,
Rubs Olbas Oil on her soul and
Claims ‘price hikes make me sad,
Sadiq can kiss my ass. He ain’t even
Got a bike where I can place my ass.’
But round and round the cycle goes
Hot gusts of wind just blow and blow,
Time to step up and go toe for toe,
Blow for blow, blow for blow
Pricey like 8 balls bought by the dozen
Baking a bun in the oven
So shes need the dough,
And the saddest thing is
And little does she know:
You can’t make a change
That’s just how it goes.
Stories On The Sofa 