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!
Tag: travel writing
March 22nd Commuter
Fresh press the chinos,
They’re so benignly beige,
Please ignore his cover
And start flipping each page,
Pays to be patient
Says the doctor to the saint,
But staying so latent?
Well, that just comes with age – like,
Sandpaper stubble subbed in for soft skin
Or clothes in the dryer instead of hanging in the wind.
Rescind the winding whines of wheedling strife
Cos the logo on his backpack promises
A ‘unique concept for a highly active life’
Living the Hi-Life, ain’t got no high tops –
Pops rocking reeboks in titanium white,
And yeah they look nice, but I wonder
What they’d smell like if I took a peek inside?
Let’s just take a step back and say
‘The thought alone will suffice’.
Nice, crisp shirt, not too loose, not too tight
Covered in white dots and buttoned right to the top,
Cos when his fingers start fumbling
You know they never stop.
Feet crossed but legs not; dozing, posing
Specs on his nosey, strung up with white string
Which composes his clothesies,
Cagoule, cap and all.
March 3rd Commuter
Switch on the lenses to see who’s inside
Looks like blue irises in watery eyes
Ebbing and flowing but just can’t cry,
Sad and aimless, skittering around,
Overwhelmed from the top of the ceiling
To the bottom of the ground,
Just sitting around clasping the past in her lap,
Plumbing the denim depths of stonewashed shores,
Should head abroad for that sunshine selfie gloat
So migrating south in her goose down coat
Chewing the bread crumbs laying on the lay lines,
Blue line’s delayed by demands for overpaid overtime,
We’re all statues behind the yellow finish line,
Expecting to be taken home in good time
But this time it’s taking a toll,
Need to refreeze the Iceland ice-cream roll
Boxed up in the bag behind her legs.
What did you expect?
She’s a bag for life carrying a bag for life –
Ring on her finger, she’s been bagged for life
As someone’s wife, what a life, life of Riley
Clothes so tidy and her mouth is so tiny,
It barely breaks the surface tension of her face,
Misplaced, out of date, flick the clipper
And watch the cheeks sag
As the skipper goes down with her ship
Someone slipped her a menthol filter tip.
Cigarette wrinkles spiral round her lips,
Like a centrifugal baccy rind beat into her hide
Go grab the drawstring and now pull it tight,
Slip the slimline inside; puff, puff,
Cough cough, oh shit she’s died.
March 2nd Commuter
Cockblock the King’s Rock, cos she’s
Rocking a baggy pink beanie, slumping
Like a Slowpoke that feels kinda sleepy.
Tuck in the blonde hair
Get it all up under there,
Goldilocks using travelcards to escape those three bears:
Ménursa trois with the wholegrain grains,
Organic porridge to start the day,
Tuck it away, slurp it up, she’s got the curves
That make commuters look up,
Stood up in the carriage in those
Kitten killer heels, a suede covered marriage
Between a kitty and killer deals.
Relax, watch her balancing act,
She’s not holding on cos her phone is switched on –
Eye of pig and beak of angry bird,
Call it a 21st century witches coven.
Covered the top now onto the bottom,
Skinny black jeans swinging in the northern line breeze,
Puff it, I’m wheezing, should pack it in,
But I’m packing fascination for her
Maroon puffa jacket,
She’s looks like grapes in bubble wrap
And I wanna unwrap it.
Asked what’s in the package
Packed into the burnt copper rucksack
Slapped onto to her back,
Just like a donkeys pack
But it slumps to one side
And inside what kinda mysteries might it hide?
Close your eyes, spread your mind,
Shit this is her stop, but it isn’t mine,
As she wanders by, under my breath
I whisper ‘Goodbye’ and without breaking step
She exits the train with a hint of a smile.
February 17th Commuter
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.
February 16th Commuter
Cosily dozing in angular poses,
Eclipsing Euclidean credos from
The nib of his nose
To the tips of his toesies.
But from the length of his shoes
I wanna know exactly where the toes go?
Scruffy, scuffed black, lost the receipt
Can’t take em back, or receive store credit
Defs a down-vote if photoed for Reddit.
But credit is where credit’s due,
He might have a soul
But why don’t his shoes?
I’m hung up,
Strung up by the laces,
Tie ’em up in a double knot,
Not double the trouble by not tying a double knot.
Brown prancing ponytail bouncing around
Might slip its knot, but probably not,
And definitely not listening to Slipknot,
Cos he slipped in a sniffling giggle
A passing fidget of air unearthing the mirth
And exhaled without care.
Fairy lights pass by casting a glare
Gracefully garish on the glass in his glasses
Like some kind of supernova stare.
Call me a skeptic but it looks scientific
But not quite as terrific as his exotic scarf
Some constituent part of a technicolor whole,
Joseph might call if he needs to patch up a hole.
Holding the satchel clasped in his lap
Scrunching up wrinkles and writing those
Scribbles onto a Burberry mac.
Cotton relapsed to the fabric attack,
Swing round a corner, then we all swing back
Doesn’t disturb the chap and his nap
Despite his head bashing the glass
He’s still slumping, spine aligned in an off-kilter stack.
February 15th Commuter
I’ll start from the top and I will not stop
Until I’ve joined all the dots,
I’m the cammomile, she’s the chicken pox
Rockin Minnie Mouse hair, two mouse ear
Dollops plopped, tied up in forget-me-nots.
Great Scott, doc brown gonna hang around
Neck first from the necklace
Hanging round her neck first,
Pepsi Perfect thirstin, doors open: I’m first in.
Track the train back to the present at speeds break neck.
Broad nose and soft cheeks making me strain my neck.
Thinking of asking if I can bask in
This sassy, ashy lassie’s action,
Bank on me bringing the baskin and robbins,
The Moses basket and Christopher Robin.
Step back, I get ahead of myself, lemme
Selfishly shelve all of my magic spells
And fairy dust, plus her socks so sparkly
Like sparkin’ angel dust on the foil,
10 joints for Slytherin, Crabbe bought em from Goyle.
Victoria line shuffling down the coil, pitch black view
Still better than the PVA and post-it’s that spoil my cubicle’s view.
You too? Should’ve checked, but she
Wearing cheques, red and blue,
Purple lippy on the side, morning prep.
What did she expect?
Besides short shorts exposing the stretch marks on her legs?
I’m not lying, but she a real girl,
So I would not expect any less,
Tell you the truth, I give her mad respect
For sharing two calves that I wanna caress,
But keep my cards close to my chest
Cos I’m contactless
Believe me, I’m under no duress,
I just think that she’s blessed.
14th February Commuter
Lemme segway a sec, cos I’ve totally pegged
This hen-pecked, pen-heckled,
Old speckled hen sipper,
Cackling, old, tapas tipple tipper,
Real deal, Big Dipper zipper ripper.
Claptrap trapping, insensitive sentence clipper,
Yom Kippur for the mansplaining leg spreader,
Straying in boots made of real leather,
Cowskin soles, maturing his cheddar,
Pray for the weather, air miles collector
Fucking springtime Alpine ski slope sledder,
Regretting greeting Greta at the regatta,
Shoulda sat with them legs together, forever.
Forget her genial gaze, bet she’s older than a genie’s age,
Or older than the jeans in which Norma Jeane lays.
Got beads on his wrist,
Polished mahogany shackles carved out of sticks
Probably by someone who lives in the sticks
Turning these tricks, I hope that it sticks
Custom fitted for the rich, or for
Kitsch – open bracket,
bracelet wearing, oversharing, uncaring
close bracket – dicks.
Seems to forget exactly where it is that he is,
There’s strictly no sound on the underground
But it abounds when a throaty guffaw flags up his flaws
So take your best pick from the penny pick n mix:
Unbuttoned shirt fluttering under a North Face fleece zip?
Or money not in a wallet but held in a clip?
Words slurred by a permanent lisp?
The blue blood glues shut his lips,
That’s just how it is.
9th February Commuter
Mercy, mercy me! God damn!
I do declare those are working man’s hands,
Candidly handling an empty Fanta can
Recanting financial incantations
Using the fingers on each hand.
Each one fat as a rustic bread roll,
Stocky white van men, naturally bald,
But unnaturally bold when it comes to
Cigarettes that have to be rolled.
Red light, Amber leaf, soon to be green teeth.
Fiddles with a filter, fulfilling the filler to
Throw himself off kilter.
Head rush, heart rush
Maybe enough to guilt her into uncompacting their crush?
Not likely after a puff, puff, puff, but still,
That’s the stuff; off the cuff links to
Thoughts of other stuff –
Turn it up, that thing that makes him grin:
Could be the podcast in his ear,
Or memories from a different year,
Like when he made that bully shed those tears,
Exchanged overbearing fears for underwhelming peers.
No fear, not hurting, coat bought from Burtons,
Same dull shade as his tobacco faded curtains.
Time to curtail and close these curtains,
Hard to tell but I’m certain that he’s hurtin’
Cos when the grin fades, the wrinkles upstage
And I can’t gauge his age
But fears allayed, come the end of the month,
He’ll get paid his wage
And can finally afford another can of
Fruit flavoured lemonade.
7th February Commuter
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.
Stories On The Sofa 