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Out of date train tickets and their receipts,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.
Tag: daily poem
16th January Commuter
He’s the double of Douglas and ten times the fun
Not as sporty as Sportacus, but ten times the glutton
Chucking food down his throat like he’s shooting a gun
Should’ve guessed from his look,
Looks like Robbie Rotten.
Done gone sit on his ass,
Graspin’ a Sainsbury’s bag
And Clasping the satchel keeps me from snatching the snacks
See this classy old rascal,
Is gonna stick to his task
Gonna get himself home and empty the bag.
But home is so empty except for what’s on his back,
So sack off the ruckus, unzip the zips on your bag,
And let the gold teeth start glinting,
I guess ay you got swag.
Cracks the black Pepsi Max with his swaggering jaws
Mooncakes and food pour all over the floor.
Those old-skool crepes,
Must be breaking a law.
Call the fashion police to point out his flaws,
Treat the black turtle neck just like a trapdoor,
Drop down the head,
Call it Squirtle’s withdraw,
The tactical turtle with the slappable girdle,
Sorta wish that jelly belly would finally curdle,
Oh you want thicker milk?
Just keep spinning that silk,
And spinning those lies,
Like it’s Rome that you built;
Like it’s hunger not guilt.
Just keep spinning those lines,
Let em build up like silt.
Let em build up bigger and we’ll christen the chins
You know, the ones that are never there
When you begin.
13th January Commuter
Tea cosy on her head,
Teabags beneath her eyes,
Let em brew, until death is nigh
Tannin skin, tie dyed the fading light.
Must be some kind of madness, right?
To dress in mouldy tweed coats, giant jumpers
And baggy trousers that swamp yer height?
That’s like, I dunno…
Throwing yourself into a crocodile’s bite.
So I don’t wanna see no crocodile tears, give em a wipe
Give em a swipe, grin with your teeth,
The gum hangs underneath, mouth agape,
Ticker tape teeth all over the place.
It’s a state caused by not
Bothering to brush enough; cuffs turned up
It’s dat grab, spin and roll
Walking boot trainers, all grip and no soul,
Just enough salt for the sole to handle the cold.
That little Buddha grin begins to take hold
And tributaries start flowing in skin papery and old,
Crunchy brown paper bags screwed up in a ball,
Fold her clothes to forgo the wrinkles,
Then wrangle a wink when you try to mingle,
With the singles; singling her out should have been so simple,
Like spinning a pinball or popping a pimple.
Queen bee shuffling along not dragging her feet,
Bluffing along cos I guess when you’re old,
Dragging your feet amounts to defeat
And just getting around is actually quite a feat.
Cos now she’s falling asleep…
Drifting off…
Dozing but knows when
The platform’s approaching.
Eyes might be closing
They’ll snap back right open when the doors start to open.
Well, at least that’s what I’m hoping.
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.
10th January Commuter
It’s never pleasant to sever the
Abnormal survival of one
so spirited in his hydrochloric revival:
Mr. Grew up alone call him a problem child
Mr. Acid dropping teen gone wild in his acid dipped jeans
Mr. Acid wash hair laying bare
The bait placed upstairs by
Banging tones in over-ear headphones:
A full grown fringe pinned in by
Tips dipped in green liquorice
Licking the lips and rusting the lip ring
Turning it brown, flicking it round
It crumbles to dust and falls to the grown.
Freeing those lips to mumble aloud
Undoes his zips, cos we’re deep underground
Not a sound on the track, so we all sit back
Watching his thumb as he sits there and sucks it
Blue and black.
Adding saliva as if it’s sativa
Piling it on, thinking of mom;
Each flip of a page flicks a million atoms
Into my lungs,
And on the tube
Mouth breathing fools are an oxymoron.
Stories On The Sofa 