Are those the sort of glasses that
Change from light to dark,
Depending on the light and the dark?
And if they are, I need to ask,
How can you read the Metro through glass
The colour of weak coffee? Of thin gravy?
Sepia eyes screwed tight,
Up all night with baby, maybe?
Grab squared paper and a compass to
Sketch a trigonometric face,
All angles, sharp points and
Unremarkable features. What does it prove
When a nose rises like Mount Olympus
Above cheeks so smooth?
A boyish tuft of hair,
Cotton wool clogged with glue,
Stoically styled to stifle the fear
That one day Blue Peter might appear,
Construct a face of corrugated cardboard,
Papier-mâché and little sponge bits for a beard,
Then size him up and single him out with
A derisive aside, just as he feared:
‘Look, there goes one that we made earlier.’
Tag: london tube
June 1st Commuter
Black gauze stains skin as the
Silken sheen of tights trickles over limbs, and
Pools in a pair fake leather boots.
The sort that gnomes would make,
The sort that shops would fake
So suck it up, suck it in, squeezing the limb
Pudgy upper arm, veins near the skin
Wrap the bacon rind around the bingo wing,
Such a tight thing for such short sleeve,
The toothpaste’s lid’s open and the crust
Makes a smooth fit an impossibility.
Softmint eyes ebb and flow over pages,
Reading for days, assuaging the ways
That the lines on the page beat those
Cut on Friday nights with a razor blade.
Rapid page flips, shuffling whip cracks,
She sniffs up the plot, must be engaging,
Cos she’s reading the lot; losing the plot and
Her lips might be moving, but no sounds, not one jot.
Tracing the words, silently reciting as if she forgot,
That the carriage is bare –
But it’s seventeen forty three, so of course it’s not.
23rd May Commuter
That’s a mighty big schweppe lad;
With your upright sitting posture,
And your hands clasped in lap,
The product smothered beetles
Wriggle in your tree sap,
You’re twiggy resin,
Wearing a birds nest for a cap.
Sore red spots, ink dot gumdrops,
Hand holds for daredevils and rock climbers
Potted plants for office two timers
Greasy with lacquer, teak soaked in oil
Varnish the skin before it bubbles and boils.
Tie it together with a skipping rope beard
Arching from ear to ear, a keratin grin,
Patchy muffler, a scruffy neck warmer,
Nobody puts hindsight into the corner,
No they team it with pristine white jeans,
Bright and blazing; eyesight blinded, fading.
A white hot sunset in snowy cotton threads,
An un-ironed heat haze over khaki coloured treads.
Suddenly he jumps up, gives his seat up
To a young woman with a smile and wink,
Zips up his top to hide the
Mustard splashed t-shirt, pastel pink
The sort of stain you should soak in the sink.
Stories On The Sofa 