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: writer
6th February Commuter
Part time Pollock, pillock locked
Dribbling drops of time
Straight out of his mind’s eye
And onto the glassy screen
Tired with no beans, chilly in a beanie
Should’a cold shouldered that
Soul patch goatee badge
Like an antithetical cock-eyed girl guide.
Coffee smear paint stain,
Gillette razor blade game day,
Post trim splash of oil of Olay.
Goes some way to moisturise the skin,
Stops the wrinkles from settling in after
Settling tensions between tenants,
Tummy won’t settle after drinking too many Tenants,
Cos a tenner for ten Tenants
Is always gonna increase the tension, is he
Intentionally sitting there on iPhone solitaire
Reciting a cheesy sit and stare soliloquy?
Does he care that his chinos aren’t clean though?
Pebbledash pants dashed with stains of paint:
Pigeon shit white,
Chewing gum stuck to the soul of your nikes,
Too much tea, British teeth, tannin blight,
You know, that sort of dirty-dream off-white,
Call it cream and we’ll rent it for twice the price.
There’s no titanium here, just pastel yellow sneaks
Peaking from beneath the nuclear spill of an energy drink.
I don’t believe that red bull gives you wings,
It’s no different to eating Percy pigs on a Boeing
I’m not telling porkies, cos here’s the thing:
After a day of painting and decorating,
Cash in hand paid for the can in his hand,
And yet how can he still be sleepy
Despite drinking that shit he’s drinking,
Left me thinking, red bull gives you wings
To imply survival from the ship
It always ends up sinking.
25th January Commuter
He fumbles a thumb out of his glove,
A single digit shrugging off the above and
Exposing brown skin next to his cuff.
A fat, proud worm,
Stunted and rough. Peeled skin shrinking
As the cold air sinks in. Why do something
So obscene? Well, how else is he s’posed
To get a fingertip grip right on the screen?
Cos swiping gloves on glass is like
Wiping your ass with Vaseline,
Or quenching your thirst with kerosene.
Besides he needs a fix of technology’s morphine
And an apple an hour keeps Doc Rob lean.
It’s the ho-hum, hum-drum,
Drumming thumb, thumbing the thumbtacks
Stacking the hardbacks in favour of
8 Ball Pool and Clash of Clans, the themes
Clashing like cans, can’t stand the sounds
That obnoxiously pound our ear canals and surroundings.
Pet peeve, it’s one of those makes me frown things,
One of those down the mine, dead canary things,
One of those things best solved
With arrows and bowstrings.
Stringing us along on toe tapping
Steel capped boots, still can’t lose.
Hugs the back to front backpack
To his front not his back, sitting bareback
Head as hairy as a hairless bear’s back.
Honeycomb combover, thin as gauze,
Food for thought, thought for pause,
Pause for the lung thawing, throat scoring
Coughing prologue stop, starting
Over and over, tick-tocking, set your watch
To oily cogs slipping through the daily slog.
Mr Groundhog bogged down, sunk
Into a duck down coat.
Gotta wonder where the feathers go?
Too slow, eyes close, nose blows,
Blood flows, doors shut, train goes.
24th January Commuter
She’s nipsy-nipsy, oh so tipsy,
Bar shift over overly early,
Po-faced, no Dipsy.
Tinky-Winking like La La Land
But no tips on the bar where the jar-jar stands.
Check out that stance, hot pants sentry,
Sent to guard train entries with
Knee high black socks and the 21st century.
Wonder if she sees me seeing her,
The phone in her hand might as well say
‘Do not disturb’.
Hot blood vessels snake
Up exposed thighs, from the toe to
The heel and then up to the eyes,
Exposing each capable capillary
Lifeforce artillery, papercut distillery,
Silently standing so still it’s verging on inverse versatility
Some static mannequin-type anonymity.
Come on a minutey, for all intents and purposes
She’s intensely focussed on the proclivity of
Low hanging fruit, the pockets that sag like there’s nothing to lose. If only she knew.
Cos short shorts lead to all sorts of
Bertie basset thoughts and liquorice storms.
But of course you can’t force meteorological remorse
Onto the innocence of youth. I mean she’s
Looking mean and meaning business in
A green bomber jacket the colour of a
Golden Virginia tobacco packet.
It’s fucking one degree above zero and
she needs to sort it out, pack it in,
Showing way too much skin…
Now that’s not misogyny, it’s just
A legitimate citizens concern that
When she leaves, she might actually freeze
January 6th Commuter
Single sided cross-seat conversations,
All chat, no listening, so fast
It’s blistering these listerine gums flapping like
Cross rail acceleration,
The words that she’s saying
Speed of light dissertations
Dissing the celebrations
Of those responsible for
Bad decision making,
Reliable plan faking
And rent taking vampires
Staking the benefits claimants
And their clairvoyant claims
That the cash can’t sustain em.
Vicky line, oval face,
Blue eyeshadow, all on her face
Framed like a portrait,
With an East London accent
Not how the tv actors portray it
Not how they say it in stories and tales,
So torrid they sell, paper after paper,
Murdoch making more paper,
Crown the top Trump kingmaker
Time to crush all these front page time wasters.
Must be hot in her hijab
She’s got the gift of a sharp gab,
Mad as some queen mab,
Now throw out that elbow
And give me dab.
Shaking and spearing the faults of the
Season
It’s rainy and cold, it gave me a cold,
Rubs Olbas Oil on her soul and
Claims ‘price hikes make me sad,
Sadiq can kiss my ass. He ain’t even
Got a bike where I can place my ass.’
But round and round the cycle goes
Hot gusts of wind just blow and blow,
Time to step up and go toe for toe,
Blow for blow, blow for blow
Pricey like 8 balls bought by the dozen
Baking a bun in the oven
So shes need the dough,
And the saddest thing is
And little does she know:
You can’t make a change
That’s just how it goes.
10th January Commuter
It’s never pleasant to sever the
Abnormal survival of one
so spirited in his hydrochloric revival:
Mr. Grew up alone call him a problem child
Mr. Acid dropping teen gone wild in his acid dipped jeans
Mr. Acid wash hair laying bare
The bait placed upstairs by
Banging tones in over-ear headphones:
A full grown fringe pinned in by
Tips dipped in green liquorice
Licking the lips and rusting the lip ring
Turning it brown, flicking it round
It crumbles to dust and falls to the grown.
Freeing those lips to mumble aloud
Undoes his zips, cos we’re deep underground
Not a sound on the track, so we all sit back
Watching his thumb as he sits there and sucks it
Blue and black.
Adding saliva as if it’s sativa
Piling it on, thinking of mom;
Each flip of a page flicks a million atoms
Into my lungs,
And on the tube
Mouth breathing fools are an oxymoron.
5th January Commuter
Red scarf, ribbon tight
She’s scrunched up, sitting
Right opposite the words I write.
Silent eyes, they’re black and white
Two pennies in a wishing well.
She looks like Frank Spencer
Muscles taut not tender,
So past tense she’s presently
Making me much tenser
Like fake outrage pretenders
Or angry letter senders
Defenceless views defenders,
Penny pinching Christmas present spenders
She’s staring, she don’t think I notice,
But know this, I notice
The noise that her nose makes
When snowflakes are falling
Check her eyes are chessboarding
It’s me she’s eyeballing
There’s no-one she’s fooling
With her internal name calling,
Time’s still, its stalling
No sand is falling,
No beach on vacation
Dictate her destination
It’s Brixton, she calls it
South London’s plantation
She hates the state of the nation
No experts, no doctors,
No lovers or relations
Self-diagnosed a lack of patience
Hanging out in outpatients
The nurse says it makes sense
To go home and stress less
There’s no need to confess
That the gin in her handbag
Is the height of her excess.
4th January Commuter
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.
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.
Stories On The Sofa 