Polly two-phones playing polyphonic ringtones,
Unearthed a Nokia like Indiana Jones
Underground archaeology, eyes tired from alcoholic toxicity,
Dreaming of holidays in Sicily,
But she don’t have the budget,
Don’t assume – silly me.
And her idle idolatry feeds the lethargy
That feeds the profits of fuckin Maccy D’s!
But that’s plain to see when ripped jeans
Bare seams like fabric fangs,
Tight white strands that chew the skin
That spills out from underneath.
And under her knees are two red feet
Strawberry shoes paired with her nails,
Her hair and the lipstick on her teeth,
Don’t she know that it pays to be neat?
Cos you never know who you might meet,
Run into or run away from,
Facebook stalking her date from the sixth form prom.
Formerly prominent, but forlornly piled on pounds much to her detriment,
Regimented lips pursed in concentration,
Texting the guys she’d consider datin’
Or at least sharing a few intimate relations.
See, I’m not hatin, just statin what I assume to be fact,
Not interested in lies like the red tresses
She’s stuffed up under her black Nike cap.
Tag: train
4th January Commuter
She rocking the fox fur atop her
Copper and coarse hair
Of course there’s a hat where
The strands hang, they don’t care
Straightened with no care
She straight edge,
I don’t care
Cos I’m careless and I care less
Than the parentless care bear
Left at the daycare
And man I thought you knew this?
You useless, so tell me now who do this?
Pouting in her brown boots and trench coat
Now focus, she posin’ for photos so potent
Selfies with quotes in,
So current it’s a currency
She sells social sea shells, she’s so Cal
She’s some maid, she’s raisin
The waves of the current scene
So now she’s treading water,
And wetter is better,
Caught me a trendsetter,
Hair feathered, unfettered
And threatening
To send ten times fourteen letters
Straight into your boy’s DMs
In the AM and the PM
Fuck the carpe diem
No hashtag, twit trender
Topless pic sender, rendered her helpless
She’s kicking her dentures,
Mrs trendy trencher with a headstone so trenchant
The coaches should bench her,
Bench warmers should warn her:
Don’t cut the corners
Ditch Joffrey, Nat Dormer,
Sandy like the snakes in Dorne are
Her eyes got that glint though
Lapping on the blue stone,
She got 5 on it, the note’s in her pocket
Thinking so flirty, a dozen kinds of dirty
From which we need protection,
Her phones out, she’s texting
I’m reading the reflections
Blurry and unclear, the train slows,
It stops here, I’m used up
At Euston, it’s useless, she can’t hear
The ringtone on her iPhone,
I watch as she disappears.
Stories On The Sofa 