Studious caterpillar reveal your wings
Curl up in a chrysalis and change will begin
Begetting dreams of Bugattis and bourgeois beef patties,
Brioche bun and truffle mayo for the fatties
With the fattest wads of cash. How would he
Survive in a wadi without wads to splash?
Hide your stash of silk,
Stick to lactated milk,
And try to avoid blasts from the past and things of that ilk.
Cast your mind back to your childhood dreams,
Black Velcro trainers and ripped denim jeans
No need to worry ’bout bags stuffed with just stems and seeds,
Still using pipe cleaners to sustain his pipe dreams, and
Listening to mum explain how things are,
Gonna be and should’ve been.
Grasping the cover of a Roald Dahl book
Fiction’s Wilhelm scream with that Quentin Blake look.
Look, reading is an endemic pandemic systemically
Changing the world with words read retroactively.
He’s chasing these paper trails so actively,
Coast to coast, cover to cover,
It’s a marvellous medicine and he’s so sick
Just give him another.
Still plenty of time to sleep and recover.
Man, it must be such a treat
To get some shut eye without the baggage underneath,
Planting seeds in dreams that turn over a new leaf.
Belief belies this wide eyed, four-eyed child,
Beatles haircut and coat out of style
While the lack of a scar on his head
Shouldn’t prevent him from getting ahead
And living his life however he likes,
You should try it. I tried it; still trying;
But I’d be lying if I said it hadn’t drifted out of sight,
So now I sit outside, spending my nights spinning these webs
To capture butterflies and eat the dreams in their heads.
Tag: transport
June 1st Commuter
Black gauze stains skin as the
Silken sheen of tights trickles over limbs, and
Pools in a pair fake leather boots.
The sort that gnomes would make,
The sort that shops would fake
So suck it up, suck it in, squeezing the limb
Pudgy upper arm, veins near the skin
Wrap the bacon rind around the bingo wing,
Such a tight thing for such short sleeve,
The toothpaste’s lid’s open and the crust
Makes a smooth fit an impossibility.
Softmint eyes ebb and flow over pages,
Reading for days, assuaging the ways
That the lines on the page beat those
Cut on Friday nights with a razor blade.
Rapid page flips, shuffling whip cracks,
She sniffs up the plot, must be engaging,
Cos she’s reading the lot; losing the plot and
Her lips might be moving, but no sounds, not one jot.
Tracing the words, silently reciting as if she forgot,
That the carriage is bare –
But it’s seventeen forty three, so of course it’s not.