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
Tag: portrait
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.
Stories On The Sofa 