Red scarf, ribbon tight
She’s scrunched up, sitting
Right opposite the words I write.
Silent eyes, they’re black and white
Two pennies in a wishing well.
She looks like Frank Spencer
Muscles taut not tender,
So past tense she’s presently
Making me much tenser
Like fake outrage pretenders
Or angry letter senders
Defenceless views defenders,
Penny pinching Christmas present spenders
She’s staring, she don’t think I notice,
But know this, I notice
The noise that her nose makes
When snowflakes are falling
Check her eyes are chessboarding
It’s me she’s eyeballing
There’s no-one she’s fooling
With her internal name calling,
Time’s still, its stalling
No sand is falling,
No beach on vacation
Dictate her destination
It’s Brixton, she calls it
South London’s plantation
She hates the state of the nation
No experts, no doctors,
No lovers or relations
Self-diagnosed a lack of patience
Hanging out in outpatients
The nurse says it makes sense
To go home and stress less
There’s no need to confess
That the gin in her handbag
Is the height of her excess.
Tag: poem
Where I Am Right Now
Here’s a new poem (first one in ages actually!) that breaks down a few things I’ve been struggling with recently.
Fresh steam, bubbling on
A chest that feels white hot
Cos the chemical reactions have finally
Snap, crackle, stopped.
And what you thought of as molten metal
Coalesces into something it is not,
Drip by drip by drip by drop.
You watch it cool like morning dew,
And what can you do when
Breton lace turns into morning frost?
I know where I am, but I feel so lost,
My pen is still, page is empty
Can’t join the dots.
I was strong as glass up until
The slowing train, the juddering stop
Catch your breath, now get off
It’s the end of the line and that’s your lot.
If you should be so lucky
To enjoy a second-wind inhalation –
Even after the wobbling vibration
Of a centrifugal force
Has pushed your whole world off course –
Then make the most of it!
Savour the flavour of lovers
Old, borrowed and new
And try to remember
In everything you do
That light is day and dark is night
That right isn’t left,
But what’s left is what’s right.
24th May Commuter
His face is like a teabag floating in a mug
Saturated and sloppy, the texture of
Yesterday’s crumbled custard cream
Melting in liquid too hot to chug,
Soft as French cheese with an immaculate fringe,
A nightshade shoreline lapping mocha coloured skin.
Tightly fitted, sharp as tailored trouser legs,
No room for error, drink up the dregs of
Black Cappuccino froth that clump atop
The petrol cap capping an over filled shopping bag.
Squeeze the plush avocado shell,
So ripe that the flesh falls away and
Only the skin remains, taut over a slurry of
Muscle and bone,
Snail shell eyes clamped shut, no one’s home.
Probs won’t feel the vibrations of his ringing phone.
Stories On The Sofa 