Tag: portrait

Moustachioed musketeer
I pulled his hair and he mustered a tear
I bet he’s glad it weren’t the T-bone beard,
Cross the T’s and dot the eyes,
No reply for a receding hairline
Other than ‘at lees it dun’t get in mah eyes’.
Sure, but belittling belies my ill fitting ego,
Ergo, I’ll go where he goes
And make sure that he knows
I’m in it for the long haul,
Like Westbrook and coke.
Weird though, how the five finger span
Of a forehead grows, hair hung up
Like the tail of a thouroughbred
‘Cept it’s tied so tight it pulls the hair off his head.
Strands left in bed and on his pillow
Poor fellow, hands tobacco yellow
Mellowed in old age, former hell raiser
With a smart casual twist –
Mmm-hmm, finger click,
Tucks an arm into the other pit,
Sweaty Betty for the fingertips,
Tippy-tapping on the screen,
There’s no point in claiming to like it
Cos it’s all becomes old news
Just as soon as you swipe it.

Toes turned in like he’s bashful
Ankles oblique, angles so flexible
Belly full from the Billericay leather,
Shoes so shiny we’re eating dinner whenever, wherever
Splitting spaghetti, I didn’t regret it
Laddy & the Tramp tampered with Samson
Cutting off his locks like he’s a Super Tramp son
Ambles on the spot, shook up by the carriage shock
Creases in his slacks, split in half, hi-5 Spock.
Polish off the polish so none gets on your socks.
Now I’m off, judging all his plastic
Classic M&S baggy cos he’s classy
What’s inside? Makes me all Thalassy
Could be ghastly, the Metro in his hand is being kinda flappy
Shaking the sudoku, which is why he’s doing badly
Unflappable, tension from station to station is palpable
Malleable like memories of Mabel as a little girl,
Unfurls a finger stretch, sniff and eyeball rub,
Looking overdressed in a yellow winter coat with the shiniest studs
Soon to be a dud, chewed up life’s cud
Passing on his wisdom with his life’s blood
Peers out the door as the platform pulls up.

Sassy mouth-pouts spout saliva stalactites
Troops of roots tied tight in the mouth roof
As she chews the mucus just like juicy fruit.
Short-ass kid who thinks she’s cute
But kick her to the kerb if she won’t mute:
Kerb meet girl, girl meet boot.
To tell the truth, couldn’t do that to a youth
Who ain’t big enough to fill one of Stormzy’s shoes.
And the square root of four is two, too true,
Two blue Creeper creps protect each step
In a hench leather case, ensuring any escape
Is a waste of space rather than a bonafide race.
Internal kinder egg legs, milky white choc,
Out of sight bar the ankle tops:
Spotty socks rolled down beneath the roll ups,
Dark denim designed for daily dilly-dallying
Sashaying around in a camo green bomber jacket
The sort you’d see on Kanye West,
But I guess second best will suffice,
Now she’s asking ‘who’s Jamiroquai?’
Fuck man, this girl needs to recognise…
Take that Metro and cover it in petrol,
Now light a match and let go,
Like, right away. Now, from the get go.
Take your little hamster cheeks, sit down in your seat
And enjoy the fucking dairylea lunchable
That, I guess it’s your brother, gave you to eat.
Just shut up and eat.
Damn…

Did you catch the active wear over there?
Yeah, yeah, the one with the pulled back hair
And the high angle ponytail pulled back with care?
Leaving the forehead bare and the skin stretched thin
Above the now deployed Croydon grin,
Black hair, white teeth, call it original sin
Fashion alert: Adidas Originals are back in!
Three stripe ticker tape sprayed all over her bingo wings,
Jail bird chicken strips wiped up her arms,
Flammable yarn doused in oil slicks
That cut the white satin sheen
Into the blurred lines of
A perpendicular cocaine fiend’s dream.
Rocking a fool’s gold zip, saliva slips
When she licks the ripped rizla like a lizard,
Coloured tongue hangs like hankies from the sleeve of a wizard –
Elbow-grease, lick-spittle magic tricks,
Every last baccy strand must be gripped,
Grabs every last bit out of her oversized bag,
Sags like an elephant’s skin under the weight
Of all the hidden Elephant brand gin
That’ll be guzzled after the gym!
Just don’t spill any on those turquoise leggings bae,
Or rip the knees if tripped by webbing on your wedding day,
Y’all must be tired, get yourself home and
Lay on your bedding for the rest of the day.

Hispanic greaser gleefully creases his greasy hair
Running four fingers and a bike chain through there,
Cool dude with a complex complexion
Cos what I see is a reflection of my inherent racial detection
Or lack thereof and the resulting insulting inflection…
Soz bout that mate, humble pie on my plate,
Guess I’m in more of a state than your leather jacket –
Not a scuff or mark that needs patching!
No supple skin for plastic whims,
Got that concerned hand on his chin,
Concentrating on the consternation he feels
For the future he’s facing.
Slick back ya hair, ya hear?
Draw the midnight curtains near,
Flap those blackbird wings, one flick and the
Beak clicks for the raving raven nevermore.
Hope I’m not undermining your whole James Dean thing…
Chunky gold ring, straight outta Brompton,
Compost the compote, give it a strap and call it a watch.
Black strap wrapped around a wrist that bounces
In time to his bobbing leg, hobbling along
Or needs new shoes cobbling?
Probably plodding along in plimsoles with no bottom,
Does he knows it’s raining, or has he forgotten?
Window wipers for the glasses lens,
Rectangular rims, I’ll call ’em eye TV,
Highlighting the heightening ease
With which he can see.
He’s got film noir eyes, black hole pupils
Queen each disc, draught for draught,
Draft for draft, I’m being daft, had the first laugh
Now I’ll have the last.

He’s so well read, he wants to talk like TED,
Crossing the road of life with Super Ted,
Spotting the hedgehog bodies hogging the edge –
Life’s black and white, so use the zebra crossing instead.
Sweeps the product through the hair on his head,
Well fed with Timotei, young Timothy styles it skilfully,
Swoosh, slip down to the 5 o’clock shadows
Hanging over the lake like evening midges
Squidgy cheeks, pudgy eyelids through which button mushroom eyes peek,
He can’t speak when he’s biting his lip
Clipping the tip of his tongue with an enamel paper clip,
Gyrates the hips and slips shoe tread wider,
Legs spread like a compass measuring angles,
The olive green chinos stretch tighter
Dividing the gentile genitals so two veg and meat don’t overheat.
Groaning Verona, these two genial gentlemen
Generate products even a genius genie couldn’t recall…
Left hand dangles, fingers curled not mangled,
Managing to handle the curse of manhood:
Namely, blaming the bitterness of wormwood
On the bittersweet firmness of today’s
Gastric banding fabrics and their sadistic
Lack of give and elastic.

Does she self-scan her barcode knees,
Overstretching the underused jet-black jeans,
Two dark, skinny piano keys
Playing out the white skin beneath.
Bequeathed her tongue to her cheek
Cheekily chewing the juicy fruit
Pellets shaped like individual teeth.
Gnash those gnarly pearls little girl,
Keep that muscle in the underworld
Trap that chatty Persephone like a pearl.
Recline the repose, ankles exposed,
Doesn’t fancy wearing socks I suppose,
Or just supporting the trends en vogue
AWOL wooly tootsie mittens gone rogue
Splash the rouge on your lips,
Don’t wanna see no lick, smack and kiss,
But I’ll admit I’d be remiss if I missed the chance
Of enjoying something over which
I could listlessly reminisce.
You get the gist, gesticulating these verbal
Articulations, penetrating your concentration
Helping you to relate to unrelated primates
To whom a seconds thought is too much to give.
Take little miss stonewashed shirt and shit,
A denim darling starring in a parka
Where’s the red paint firestarter?
Fuck the faux fur, this is Sparta!
You gotta barter for a bigger part if you wanna
Make an impact from the start, no brain fart
Pick your personality from the a la carte
And sit back down as the delayed train
Moves past far too fast.

He holds the whole world in his hand
Perfectly pinched between the finger and thumb-span
Turns up the brightness, modern day Atlas,
Battling the buffer curtailing the show he covets.
Carving an idol to idleness, graven images
Engraved into irises by fruity viruses.
If one a day keeps the doctor away
Then by the 6s he’s practically undead,
Kept alive by the backlit blue illuminations
That dehumanise him in bed.
Doesn’t even nod his head,
Just breath after breath – steady, steady
Silently static, mr anti-erratic,
Pneumatically pneumonic,
Fresh air is the tonic,
No tectonics for the Teutonic,
Just tramadol for Sonic. Or some chronic,
To take the edge off the chronicles chronicled in his cranium.
Hair spread thin like the last of the butter,
Like or lump it he ain’t no crumpet,
Just crunched up, hunching,
Probs Pret A Manger lunching,
Curled in the corner,
Thumb in the socket, Jack Horner,
Bored with Law and Order,
Ordered the headphones from Bose
White plastic shellac sounds silent on the underground –
Shit, here comes the climax to the show,
But – wait – No! No! No!
You’re taking the piss with the buffer’s ebb and flow,
Where’d the fucking wifi go??
Who’s the real killer?
I guess we’ll never know!