Turtle shell granny hunched up in a hump
Jiggles and jumps when the train hits a bump
Or maybe she’s fidgety from doing a bump
Dabbing up each and every last crumb,
Life’s too short to not have some fun.
Hair like cactus bristles, dry and brittle
Colourless like limited edition skittles.
A head of dead coral, perfectly coiffured
Before her morning coffee,
I’m sure it is, it must be,
Bet she stops when coughing
Wears a vaguely worried look
That wouldn’t be out of place on any grandparents’ face
Anxious and apprehensive, too many screens
Too much tapping, not enough nattering,
Gallivanting or gossiping, golly goshing
Or soft joke joshing.
Either that or way too much boshing,
But what do I know, I ain’t a boffin!
Ankle biting pleats expose her feet
To the meaty carriage draft,
So solid it was probably crafted in clay
By ghost to a song..
Regardless of that, she whistles along
Never one to belong
Especially in those plastic white daps
But damn sure she’s always keen on the last laugh.
Tag: writer
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Misplaced, out of date, flick the clipper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.
March 1st Commuter
Spectacularly oversized specs circumvent
The circles of each iris in the middle of her eyes
Colours in a cage, focusing the light.
A slight disinterest glides behind each lens,
Skating, skirting, transforms the world
Like an oyster with dirt in.
Deidre Barlow glasses perched on a nose,
Wide, curvaceous, aerodynamically low,
Slipping the slipstream through the fake fur on her coat,
A fluffy rim on the hood could be misunderstood
As a sensational political statement,
By the fashion police on the streets of the hood.
Pull them knee high socks up
Before they fall down and
Expose the brown skin forged from
The red clay deep underground.
Adam’s rib, deep fried;
Ted Baker bag, oversized;
Underused, so improvise
A fulfilling filling for its inside.
Crimson braids hang and sway,
Watch the sexy serpents play
I feel like Barry White on Whacking Day,
Whacks in her earbuds and then hits play
Her nodding head shrinking
As the train drifts away.
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.
8th February Commuter
Taxi cab cabbie or cheeky chap chappy
Sitting alone in his lime green cappy…
Happy go lucky or
Trigger happy finger plucky?
Snap the cap off the sharpie
Pen these features on sharply
Pinching pinched cheeks in disbelief,
Looks like it’s time to water the heath,
Thin, patchy stubble with unwashed skin showing underneath,
Half grown, half mown,
Mach 3 would make sweet moan.
How can he hope to atone when
Razors blades are erased and instead
The payday loan pays for yet another burner phone?
But phoning mugs and plugging drugs,
Helps to make the next payday his own.
Coke blown, cash blown, should’ve known
To take his cod liver oil,
Wrap that shit up and smoke it on foil
Make the blood boil and end up six feet
Beneath the soil. Still toil and trouble,
Life goals achieved by blowing a Hubba Bubba bubble,
Working that jaw like a grass chewing horse,
Voice probs as hoarse as a hungover whore.
Dropping bets on the scores in a Kangol windbreaker
Believing the tweets of all the fake news breakers
Breaking the ice into manageable rocks
Now so frazzled on rocks, thinks he’s in Fraggle rock.
Lock stock and two smoking nostrils
Nostradamus on Advil can’t predict overdue bills
But who needs to see the light, when
The blood from your nose is reality distilled?
Stories On The Sofa 