I’ve got this stranger standing in the corner,
Horny Jack Horner thumbing phones and hoarding plums,
Plumbing the depths, fixing the pipes,
Keeping himself to himself, a penitent life.
Downward facing, shoe gazing,
Grazing the ground with a bland brand on his feet.
Getting stress free is a stressful feat
No strifey, no lighty – but likely to pikey
The pound on the floor, even though I saw it too…
Load up the ammo cos he’s got a coat soaked in camo
Splotches of green and brown
And black and I dunno,
Some trees and nests and stuff
You’d find up above not below
I feel like he’s wearing it just for show
Shifting sands shift his hands
Fingers plugged into the pocket
And thumbs hang on to the rim,
Fingering the discourse
Of the distinguished distance
From belt to buckle, self pleasure cuckold.
Plain faced muggle, must be a struggle to
Control that bedhead bedroll of
Tousled, floppy hair
These mouldy, curly, cabbage locks
Hanging over his face like a shaggy dog.
He ain’t got a Scooby, so surely he’s lost,
Can’t pick a destination,
But sure can pick a spot
A bloom of blackheads dabbed on the nose
Giving birth to a join the dots –
An adolescent lesson
Learned when the weasel goes pop.
Can’t hide it so stop trying
Eyes prying, everybody knows,
We’ve seen it all before like a syndicated show
Stopper, popping popper,
Lopping the top off the last black spot
Put down your top up, don’t call the cops up
Cos the blood lust for black heads
Is a messy mess. It can’t be covered by
Coats covered in birds nests.
So we best test the rest of these pests
Before blessing the depressing
Succession of self proclaimed successes
And the subsequent messes
That we have to digest.
Tag: london
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.
18th January Commuter
Shiny stainless steel stalactite
Oversized and slid in slanting to one side
Damn you and your dithering dangling, Damocles
You didn’t even pierce his left eyebrow right!
Damaging the puncture wound
With that silver spoon digging in tight.
I bet you didn’t even realise?
Cos it’s digging in tighter than the tip of a silver bullet might,
Twist it left, pull it right,
Turns out a silver tongue can’t fight off a robot’s bite.
So rock-a-bye Pret-a-Manger and grab a byte.
A subway snack,
Foil wrapped life hack packed into a backpack,
Then unwrap, chew snack, collects the crumbs in his lap
Stores the excess carbs as body fat,
Cos a little bit of polyfilla prolly will leave you feeling fuller.
Woulda watched his tighty whitey eyes widen,
If I coulda asked him why he’s biding time riding peak period;
I’m serious, full stop, no periods.
See my theory is that his threads
Tread the line between 6pm today and some other period.
Seriously man, I’m serious. Here’s the sign:
Oversized skate shoes and baggy jeans from 2003
How can he be anything but in a period piece?
He’s also clad in a drab grey plaid Snapback cap
And that piques my intrigue
Teasing thoughts about what lies beneath?
Please puff out the pastry pasted to your cheeks,
Smooth out the plaster of Paris until the blemishes are sleek,
So that your appearance is somewhat neat,
Or on fleek,
Or at the very least not up shit creek.
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
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.
12th January Commuter
I watch her drop snapchat stories like molly,
Her face like a doggy,
Canine police squaddies sniffing the mandy
Getting a whiff of those pansies.
Ransom the wifi randomly while sitting
At the station. No 3G means no elation,
Cos uploading pictures takes patience,
Incremental like Bowie, implications
Growing station to station.
She got it, don’t got it,
Can’t get it, forget it,
Forgot it, can’t stop it so
Better make the most of this crap.
She snaps the chatter in half
With her book and two hands,
Handily handing page after page,
Imagining freedom from TFL’s
No stick, stainless-steel, Tefal cage.
What’s her zone? What she pay?
Don’t get off. I want you to stay
Hungry, gobbling the words right off of the page
They’re lambs to the slaughter, and her
Wooly woolen jumper is conspicuously comfortable,
And durable, completely out of my price range,
It’s strange, but then…I am nearly broke
So her suede shearling coat,
Must surely be a gift from a father to a daughter?
Oughta try and score the author
Who’s linguistic net has caught her
Before the Bellini’s are even passed out.
It’s getting so hot in here, I wanna pass out,
Black out, black ops, adidas high tops,
Pride of place facedown on the underground
Groaning next to her three stripe shoes,
This is awkward, so what we gonna do?
Cos I think you’ll find they’re actually trainers, not shoes.
And I bet they’re soaking wet from the rain
And the sleet and the snow.
And when at home the radiator’s a no brainer,
Cos regardless of the costs,
She’ll work overtime to repay ’em.
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.
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 