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.
Tag: urban poet
3rd January Commuter
It’s been a while, here’s a Commuter poem to kick off the new year.
It’s the top of the opposite of the morning
And I’m yawning cos he’s yawning…
Dribble on the red shirt, shepherd’s warning
Why is it that you’re still not yawning
Thought it’s your thing?
You know, overworking all the snoring,
Yet 40 winks on the journey’s so clever!
Underground there’s no weather,
Well Whatever, watch his chest rise
Each rib jumping t-bone junctions,
Clumping together, so clunky
More hump than, than Humpty Dumpty
Or some other sumptuous something.
Bridge toll for the fat roll
Spilling over, flooding these budding
Buddies of the adipose posers
Clinging to the inside of his trousers,
Crowd surfing the surfeit spare skin
Inverted half pipe, tap out your hash pipe
Brain fuggy, so muggy when it’s foggy
Bogging him down in the nitty gritty
Where he’s sitting,
Where he’s sleeping,
Where he’s shitting and where he’s speeding.
Still moving forward, toward a
Brand new Just Eat order.
Misty moustache or
Gravy staining, like a baby? You crazy?
Napping with no napkins, snaffling,
Still Snoring, my attentions waning,
Man it’s boring
So boring, Round and round, ball bearing,
Load bearing
Feet arches, shirt starches
Skinhead, hair gone marching
Still swear it’s cool, to be spherical?
Each to their own
But where’s the line between
Being berated and being unbearable?
Cheeks of a stuffed burrito
Pulled pork and neck less
You need less like a necklace sans the nectar,
His julie missing her jewelies,
Dive in to those two turquoise blue poolies
Blinking behind the eye lids
Of the biscuit tin.
He’s yawning, not snoring.
Still boring.
14th July Commuter
She sits slowly, steadily
Pushes a caramel hand through the nest of daddy-longleg limbs
On top of her head. Her inky hair swept up into a pony tail
Clamped in place by a tired old band,
The fractured strut that tries its best to tame
Each strand, each fraying thread of a
Nightshade tapestry woven by will-o’-the-wisps.
The tickling grey of age spiderwebs its way through her roots,
Trapping flakes of dandruff like flies…
Perhaps she should try TRESemmé as it’s
Salon quality at a high street price –
– um, never mind.
Her curtain tassel is hassled and flustered by the maelstrom breeze
Whipping with ease through the carriage,
Fidgeting in her seat, it’s not hard miss that
She possesses a certain kind of plumpness.
An ocean of skin, fit to burst thanks to organs within,
Try not to rupture the suet that inflates both arms like rubber rings,
Must patch her up, must try to keep it all in.
A shrunken smile, smaller than a voodoo head,
Has been hung picturesque upon a
Face the colour of clotted cream fudge,
With a gaze forlorn, a smiling sadness
Found only in eyes that have sunk
Beneath the cresting wave of a cheek.
Needs must mean we have to
Dive down deep to discover her treasure,
Two tiny beads polished to a shine,
Leisurely strung upon a thin braid of wrinkles
Etched under each lid
That have eroded her youth,
But perhaps not carnal pleasure. She titters,
Asking advice on which stop she should depart,
One-two-three? Can’t be going too far.
Finally staggers upwards, a drunken elephant,
Slipping in monsoon mud,
Waddles right past me, totally unaware that
She’s finished playing her part in my art.
27th June Commuter
The flock of diamanté dragonflies buzz on her shirt,
A silent fly-by beneath grey-haired sky,
Rhinestone insects, wings spread like summer flowers,
The trim of her trainers, pristine, white as self raising flour,
Ready to bake the most of each day,
Leaving tire tread footprints in the soft clay
Of gum on a pavement or mud in the park.
Fiddles with shades that pull back her hair,
A silent remark to show that she cares,
Despite how her skin hangs with a sunshine sag,
Despite the fact its the texture of an old serpentine bag.
I’ve an inclination to ask where exactly
The purse ends and the suntan begins?
Maybe beneath the luscious green stains
Supplied by gold plated, copper rings,
Bringing digits to life like
The rains on the plains of good old sunny Spain.
She’ll bequeath them one day, as either
A tacky postcard or an heirloom for kin,
Call it a passion for fashion?
More like original sin,
Just a set of toggles to tighten up ill fitting skin.
15th June Commuter
Shark fin heels cut swathes through the aisle,
Flexing her thighs wide as a smile,
Stretching her tights cos that’s just the style,
To dress up your floating logs as crocodiles.
Slumping in seats, languidly lazing,
The taut, dark brown fabric gradually fading
Through phases, thinning from day after day
Without changing. Her knee caps are
Straining beneath a drab cream
That’s just itching to burst.
Oblivious, mother hen is hatching her purse,
Casually cradled, craftily able to
Explore all her things,
iPhone, lipstick and gold plated hoop earrings.
She coughs into a cardigan, politely hiding her germs,
But a hand is preferred when manners are learned,
A vicious hacking bark has dislodged her perm,
And it feels like a corner might just have been turned.
She re-fluffs her tresses to make sure they fall right,
Palms down the creases on the dress she wore last night
Tries to put on her makeup under the right light,
Steady hand, steady wrist,
Checks her phone, what’s she missed?
She looks disappointed,
Forlorn and let down:
The 3G signal is feeble,
Because we’re a mile underground.
24th May Commuter
His face is like a teabag floating in a mug
Saturated and sloppy, the texture of
Yesterday’s crumbled custard cream
Melting in liquid too hot to chug,
Soft as French cheese with an immaculate fringe,
A nightshade shoreline lapping mocha coloured skin.
Tightly fitted, sharp as tailored trouser legs,
No room for error, drink up the dregs of
Black Cappuccino froth that clump atop
The petrol cap capping an over filled shopping bag.
Squeeze the plush avocado shell,
So ripe that the flesh falls away and
Only the skin remains, taut over a slurry of
Muscle and bone,
Snail shell eyes clamped shut, no one’s home.
Probs won’t feel the vibrations of his ringing phone.
Stories On The Sofa 