Pencilled on eyebrows rage against the dying light,
Shellac nails and a bun pulled tight;
Taut features, smooth yet stressed,
A slack shirt freshly pressed.
Yet Somewhere
Beneath the fake leather coat, a beetle black cloak;
Beneath The shiny metallic zips, fools gold for pouting lips;
Beneath the glued on nails, as thick and dark as credit cards
Something changes.
But I don’t know what.
Hands hang from sleeves, crisp and cracked as autumn leaves,
Ready to brown and shatter,
A road map of wrinkles clad hands in
Gloves of age, jaundice yellow, a fading, sun stained page.
The golden tint of nicotine daubs her in
Turners soft hazy hues;
Turns her face orange, keeps her veins blue,
And twirling infusions of perfume linger on
Longer after her stop, long after she’s gone.
Tag: tube
May 16th Commuter
I’m staring at a Black watch,
A heavyset onyx rain drop,
Squeezing the veins of a forearm
Riddled with blue worms. Pulsing,
convulsing as the blood pumps under
A knuckle bump.
Slim fit t-shirt the dark grey of a
Burnt out coal lump. Embers remember a
Shadow waking up then slipping off
So Stick it on with soap if it gloats, or
Stick to sewing with thread if in bed and it’s dead.
A tummy rumble,
Squawking brakes
Compete against the train’s grumble.
Ochre shoes sit among the gum and the grime,
A pair of glass slippers preserved in hotdog brine
From which dangles the hypodermic needle
Of a shoelace’s head, the plastic tip is
Feeble and cracked on its deathbed.
Spilling fibers frothy as the mouth of the Tiber
White as the grin smeared across Tony the Tiger.
And he could be much slier
When disguising the dire
Sweat stains that make a
Black shirt turn blacker
Than a burnt egg frittata,
Or the Old El Paso beans in Wahaca,
So Roll on your deo
Cos you’re pungent and
Sweetly sweat lacquered.
Stories On The Sofa 