Should’ve known better than to
Check with her mate whether
She’s decked out for all weather,
Whatever, checkmate. Pilates on a plate,
It’s a palaver but the activewear’s finally on:
Leggings, Asics, hair done in a bun
Standard attire so who’s she running from?
Or where’s she running to?
Not a clue, boo.
Keeps rubbing her eyes; no dove, no coo,
No clue why she cries tears dry as jasmine rice,
Or why she relies on building
Sleepy sand castles for eyelash dwelling lice.
Hides the bright lights, and
Exfoliates the bad dreams without cream,
Respirates a yawn,
I’m torn between attempting to ignore
Or submitting to my own inevitable yawn.
It’s incredible, the hacking yakking pinning us in
Pin the tail on the gossip,
She’s spilling sloppy truths
So now’s the time to stop it
Glottal-stop her epiglottis cos
She’s both sides of the conversation:
Little Miss Armrest-hog Ophelia
Opening cans of opinions
Cos she can’t imagine ever breaking
Through a Velux glass ceiling
When she’s as fresh faced as Rashford,
But can’t afford to be rash…
Yet she’s so opinionated and brash,
Patience meet your match
Fucking definition of a verbal sweat rash.
Tag: portrait
June 13th Commuter
Dear Doctor Eggman with
The approximate egghead
All shiny with sweat and snail glue spread,
Almost perfectly round,
Who needed his dough? Who shaped his bread?
Got the millet grain beard, rust on the skillet.
He’s silly & willingly wearing
Skipping rope loops looped over his head,
Chunky bucket handle Headphones
Would drag him down to the depths.
Embedded his ears in ill-fitting earphones
Caresses and fusses with his hi-tech smartphone
Ring on his finger implies a sweet moan
But his hunched over posture cries leave me alone…
To atone for rocking a tweed jacket on this sunny day,
Fucking sack it off, just pack it away
I’m getting heat stroke and we’re going the same way,
Can’t look away from the soft sweat stains
On his picnic blanket shirt,
The one tetrised with squares
Careful yogi don’t get jokey
Cos I don’t think this Pudsey
Can handle a real bear.
Pickernick shirt,
Pick n mix dirt skirting cuticles like fur
Couldn’t be further from the cubicle
Heading for the sofa, which he clearly prefers.
Pre-prepped his crepes,
Stage managing each step
So his brown leather boots boast scuff marks on purpose.
Purportedly supportive of bovine extortion
And the supple contortion of the little wean’s skin…
He looks up at me and gives me a frown
Watches as I jot down:
How now male sow?
Can’t we Kowtow this row?
Cos I’m allowed to wow crowds
With this crown of highbrow know-how
Despite having a head crowded by clouds.
May 31st Commuter
Probe the snoozer loosely,
Don’t wanna rub him up the wrong way,
Or brew my tea with loose leaves,
Re: that, I feel strongly,
Cos it’s my way or the highway.
He’s just dozy from the high grade
Wouldn’t put it past him, look at his grin
Dances on his lips, as if it’s too full to get in.
Covert smirks cover up subconscious dirty work,
From Freudian slips to ignorant quips,
Quickly flicks his eyebrows up as if offered
Something he can’t refuse,
Delectable treats valid for a one time use;
We’re usually used to bits of loose food,
But hedge your bets,
Let’s see what he can do.
Cos he’s got the face of a kid,
But the body of a Sid,
Or a Si, or one of those sorts of guy
You know, more massive than me
But too heavy to fly. Go on, give it a try.
He’ll kick up the dust daubed onto his knees,
Capture a gust with wings of Plaster Paree,
Hitting heights only he can see in his dreams
Before the paper turns to mulch
Runs through his hands like cream,
He wakes up with a start
And finds himself still stuff in his grubby blue seat.
May 26th Commuter
Invest in a vest, no vested interests
He just wants to be the best mess
That he can be, better than all the rest,
Skin pressed red,
Pink like a raw chicken breast,
Or salt cooked salmon
Little curls of grey ramen
Growing right out of his chest,
Armpits too,
Cultures growing into something rude
A clump of nosy neighbours
Doing no one any favours
Wafting exotic scented flavours –
Au du ‘enemy of bathers’
The musk of sun ripened labour
Get dat cash in hand playa,
Stuff it in your bumbag, fannypack,
Wads of cash, rubber band goes snap.
Panting with a Lab’s lap,
Never had the last laugh cos he’s a real thinker,
One arm crossed, the other upright
If we brake now might fuck up his whole life.
Might just fill the hole in his life
But not the hole on his head,
Pretty tired Friar Tuck, no luck,
Partially bald, silver wings garland the hole
Hiding ears like Victorian ankles,
Better drop the anchor so alls well that ends well
Getting off at Stockwell,
The train don’t stop well
His heart swells, stops, drops and rolls
Call it the final toll of the bell.
May 22nd Commuter
Tip, tip, tip, little fingers tap,
Tube stop Anderson .Paak smacking
The rim of an imaginary skin,
Beating meat on his knee, 1, 2, 3…
For he’s squeezing out a beat like it’s fresh orange juice,
Hair pulled back, ponytail loose,
Slumped all kinds of louche –
It’s the end of day, got nothing to lose.
Decadent deviant, misread miscreant,
Creating a melody not meant to be read,
As thoughts sing indelibly inside of his head,
Hands steady, ready, then ready to go,
Treble clef after clef, humming note after note
I follow the rhythm like I’m reading a quote,
No way to paraphrase the fading phases
Of his creative daze, been thinking for days.
Ruminating, germinating, Raybans aviating,
Mirrored on the front so
It’s my own face that holds my gaze as I perambulate.
Perfecting the written reflection of his
Cherry blossom blazer, dirty with patterns
Like a Japanese spring,
The flowers are falling
And cover him like lint.
He grins a self satisfied, yellow grin
And I hope to God that his pillow has a mint.
Can’t rescind that which cant be undone,
Just as you can’t run after crossing your legs
Even in jeans, the question still begs
An answer to a figure of four cross
Held from the first to his last stop –
Sew him back together when the
Pins and needles make him drop.
May 17th Commuter
She’s getting pepped up and preppy,
Peppering her tongue with a full can of Pepsi
Candidly handling brand spanking new plans
That involving necking all of the black can,
She zero sugar reppin,
Ring pull rippin,
Cross-legged sittin
Won’t surprise me if she gets indigestion
Or a heart burn in her muscular engine.
Must be a Multipack buying legend,
Packing down multiple cans in a session.
The skin on her face eventually regressing,
Second guessing the sugar coated spots,
Hot to pop like pop tarts that have gone off.
Bland blonde locks hanging lankly
Eye’s fixed on her reflection so blankly,
Where are her thoughts, who robbed the banky?
And wiped her mind clean
With a tissue not a hankie?
What’s the matter? Couldn’t afford Bounty?
Bountiful bounty, it’s a peg leg affair
In those pinstripe leggings that expose spikes of leg hair,
Unshaved for days, pays to be savoir faire,
Call it pirate flair or Blackbeard charm
No need to pass coins from your palm to her palm
It’s like she’s making a point
That we won’t come to harm,
Cos she hardly looks barmy, just aloof
Never smarmy, she just smarting at the garms
Garnered by the rush hour army.
May 10th Commuter
Mister open top Costa coffee cup
Swallows a slurp and coughs it back up,
Definitely worth flagging up, even if
The cardboard cup is about to give up,
It might not be much – and it isn’t tough –
But there’s nothing new in slurping without burping.
I wonder if his arm is hurting
Pressed up against the glass
Mashed up against silica with sass
All smushed up like old mash.
No measles there, the glass shows no rash,
Maybe I was rash or maybe I was rushing
When I started rubbing crayons over the bark
Watching the A4 paper darken
As though I’m colouring in my eyes,
Let the dams burst
It’s a technicolour cry.
Screw this guy for loosing this tide,
Can only guess at what he hides inside
Looks like he runs on the side,
Implied by a fidgeting Fitbit on his wrist
Step count at risk if continues to sit
All curled up as if taking a kip,
Spirals his spine to a snail shell design
Mr Curly-Wurly, Ouroboros Omanyte,
Burly, surly, all night surely staring at omastars
Glimmers of glitter scratching the
Magnetic strip on midnight’s credit card
Drowned out by the backlit guitar
That vibrates his eardrums
Through tiny plastic conches:
3rd party earbuds manufactured in China,
Call it a guess, call it one of my hunches.
May 9th Commuter
Turtle shell granny hunched up in a hump
Jiggles and jumps when the train hits a bump
Or maybe she’s fidgety from doing a bump
Dabbing up each and every last crumb,
Life’s too short to not have some fun.
Hair like cactus bristles, dry and brittle
Colourless like limited edition skittles.
A head of dead coral, perfectly coiffured
Before her morning coffee,
I’m sure it is, it must be,
Bet she stops when coughing
Wears a vaguely worried look
That wouldn’t be out of place on any grandparents’ face
Anxious and apprehensive, too many screens
Too much tapping, not enough nattering,
Gallivanting or gossiping, golly goshing
Or soft joke joshing.
Either that or way too much boshing,
But what do I know, I ain’t a boffin!
Ankle biting pleats expose her feet
To the meaty carriage draft,
So solid it was probably crafted in clay
By ghost to a song..
Regardless of that, she whistles along
Never one to belong
Especially in those plastic white daps
But damn sure she’s always keen on the last laugh.
May 6th Commuter
She got Kung Fu Kenny cornrows
Rolling midnight ripples trickling down
Trinity’s screen like numbers coloured green.
Sorting the wheat from the chaff
No need for a hat when you’re
Always holding the present up
Against the bright light of the past.
It’s time to move past,
Fast forward, no pauses –
Scores of glass beads knead the knots
Clotting each dread in a full stop.
She never even started,
Newspaper pages parted
Like Moses and an RGB dot matrix sea,
Easy as 1, 2, 3; No more turning to page 3,
Might leave a sour taste for some
But it’s lemon squeezy to not be easy:
Right place, wrong time, all green, no lime.
Light skinned Limey inspecting
Limescale flecks flicked onto her feet
Debut EP by Nike Airs feat. Chalk Dust Crush
Scruffy, scuffed up and dusty,
Must be hard to muster something so musty
When fingernails are sharp as mustard,
Inclined to mischief and easily flustered.
Eyelashes flutter, smile melting the butter
Sour as rhubarb but sweeter than custard.
Cussing, I’m cutting off her coven
Going into hiding and calling myself McLovin
Must be cos I’m stupid and southern.
Chequer box socks blotted with ink dots,
P’raps this little cat is in fact a leopard lacking spots?
Dot dot dot
Eclipse the ellipsis for this missus
Missing the massive missive as her jeans fall apart
Acknowledging the issue is a start
But cat claws and bramble branches don’t bite lightly
They dig in tightly trying to tear each seam,
Flaking the scales off of the bream, and
Undermining every friendship on the team
Until there’s nothing left,
Nothing except bare legs, bad dreams and a travel-card for zones 1-3.
May 2nd Commuter
It’s been a little while, hasnt it!
Anyway here’s a new commuter poem, sorry if it’s a bit sloppier than usual – im feeling a little rusty!
—
Just pin the tail on the donkey,
And I don’t wanna see nothing funny,
So no funky junkies or monkeying around,
No silent phones that don’t make a sound,
No square pegs hanging around in the round,
No more clowns with painted on frowns
Throwing around unpasteurised crowns.
Tears that leak onto puff pastry cheeks
Are lapped up by cheap burlap sacks
Tacked to puppy fat
That warily watch where his nose goes
Cos they know, like you and I know:
Such a sharp schnozz is a balloons worst foe.
Zip that jacket up lickety split,
The design’s out of time,
So cover up before they cotton on
That grey stripes on black cotton
Is as rotten a design as the sodden cigarette butts
Bummed by the gums of Dot Cotten.
Eesh, gone but not forgotten,
No matter how much I try to forget ’em.
Must be a relaxed chap as he
Pulls a polish calendar out his bag and
Proceeds to loosely flick through
In lieu of a smart phone
Looks like he’s making a smart move,
Fingering each day, moment to moment
Like a showman on show
Without shit on his shoes,
Without sniffing some glue
Without getting a clue from either me, you or blue
But the best he can do is
Buff each mark out of his shoes,
Soft suede, played like a fiddle
Until the nylon strings quiver, afraid,
As if he’s afraid that his laces might fray
Day after day until they fade away
And his shoes slip off unseen
While he’s stuck walking the wrong way.
Stories On The Sofa 