Asked for a ladder that Jacob couldn’t climb,
The clattering hubbub pulled my minds eye
To the gash in the back of her black wool tights,
Might try to cling on tightly not tiredly
If they weren’t so unsightly, reuniting skin
With fresh air, oxidising her legs
Along with her burnt copper hair,
Girly curls of wire curling so wildly,
Wily as a coyote.
Call her a talking, flaming bush, I’m blaming the peyote
What’s there to show me in your red leather bag?
Adorable Pandora or fair weather hag
Using the bag to haggle with her hangnail charm,
Two hands hang at the end of her arms
Cutely curtailed with cuticles so beautiful
They disarm. There’s no cause for alarm
But looking back, they were beautifully black,
Cos black nail polish is a tip top tactic
To hide all the grime,
The sort a whiny white male would acknowledge as
The secret residue of cut lines.
Her plush cheeks blush meekly from the pre-dinner wine,
And cork coloured eyes spill wider
Than the widest oil spill those sinners tried to hide.
No truth, just crude lies cruising so wide they were
More out of this world than that Buck Rogers guy.
Watch her buck teeth chew the buckwheat,
Buck the trend of the lean in 15 cheat sheet.
Got some pretty neat tats,
Inked in bric-à-brac stacked
In a handy habitat
Between each finger, imagine that!
My gaze lingers like a lazy acrobat on
A love heart and a peace sign and
Other tat like that,
Abiding, silently hiding until the oyster emerges at the end of the line
Hard to define such a boisterous girl
When you watch her spit out a spearmint pearl.
Tag: rap
1st February Commuter
Ten damn stops until the end of the line,
The grape on the vine where X marks the spot.
Try and spot the lesser-spotted leopard skin blouse:
Is she mutton dressed as lamb or an
Overdressed, jam distressed dormouse?
Playing house inside tannin stained teapots,
When it’s only 5 o’clock and she’s already
Dressing madder than a hatter whose lost the plot
Too late to change her top
Too late to change her spots or her stripes,
You’re damn right, marching overripe
Hair into a tortoiseshell brooch.
Slowing her approach to make an impression
Impressing in a cotton pelt as sheer as Shere Khan’s direction
Straight to the top and don’t ever stop
Except to stop the rot.
Keep tutting with your glottal stop
Tainted posh, lips painted rot.
That’s German for red, which is the colour of
The blood that she coughs.
I’ve seen the hanky, diagnosed it, now thank me.
This ain’t no hanky panky,
I want some of that cash you got in the banky,
Legs short not lanky, saggy scarf hanging,
Tassels hassled by the carriage breeze
Banking the cliff of her hips,
Suede ankle boots will never slip
Just like ships that’ll never sink,
Who else thinks that logo clad tote bags
Are totally totemic baggage, iconoclastic
And plastic. Masticating the muscles
Of her shoulder, forever getting older,
Depend on that like the weather getting colder,
But unwanted like a cold caller getting bolder.
Should’ve told her, that the signal from the iPhone in her hand
Resonates on a dangerous bandwidth,
But it’s what she listens to the band with,
Plugged into an iPhone I.V., a shrinking violet
Slowly hidden beneath apple’s poison ivy.
30th January Commuter
Cross legged leggings suspend fake leather leggys
In plasticine webbing, shiny and taut.
Puckered lips from the lemon tort,
A citrus blemish caught out and worn outdoors,
Can’t explore the great outdoors behind self-closing doors.
Black hair, feathered like Raven feathers,
Extra volume, very clever; too clever
By half. Too smart by a quarter.
Watch the silver bangles jangle
That her boyf probably bought her.
I’m pressured to make these presumptions,
It takes a certain kind of gumption, like wearing
Gummy rubber boots to a black tie function.
Doc Marten’s stomping the junction,
So shiny I can see my face in ’em
So shiny I wanna eat my lunch off ’em
Clapping the ham, applauding the meat
Tapping the letters into a text,
Better yet,
Call it a love note to a soon to be ex,
Time to reset and see what’s next
Cos the text that she wrote,
Left hearts broke
As though it’s murder she wrote.
Hid it so well under her black winter coat
Sniffing so well all the white winter coke,
Or maybe she’s sick and just cannot cope
With such a big winter coat; it’s far too warm,
Sweaty and alluvial, can’t wait to be born
From this metallic womb, silver spoon,
Stainless steel room, booming rumours
Chasing each station, burning tinder relations
It’s a fishy equation,
So Pisces she can’t see the fella.
Squinting those eyes at the guy’s, ay Ella?
Stirring things up a bit mrs paella,
Out of this world, Interstellar,
Digs the dark not the stars, clear night, no weather
Dunno whether she’s into selling the soul
She keeps down in the cellar.
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.
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
Stories On The Sofa 