Sitting at my internal window,
curd muffin crumbs crowding my lap,
sleepy slug fairies snooze on each eye brow
as fingers layer typing symphonies,
phones burping out cold calls and
paper humming beneath jet inked thoughts
in the creaky, carpeted corridor
between shifts and the swift outdoor breeze.
Tag: Poetry
A Higher Horse
and so it turned out,
that the giant critic of idiots
had superiors above him,
dabbing black marks to his name
every time a thrown was creased,
leaving, at the day’s end,
through a looking glass –
much bigger than his own,
one more fool upon the tally.
West End Swell
Hot dog vans, dishing it out like crack.
Maccy D’s filling gluttony’s hole.
Pissy alleys offering it on a plate.
Vacant skulls holding out empty bowls.
Discount theatre tickets, cheap cocktails.
Each opportunity, too good to be true.
Strangers cruising the curbs of bars.
Spreading the loner’s most lethal flu.
Buttons on walls, filling crazy hands.
A night of tipsy syrup, one full day’s work.
Public toilets and river side winds,
where the lost and found go lurk.
Parked cars with their lights turned on.
Bus stop crowds of vomit and smoke.
Tacky limo parties slowly passing by.
Misplaced joy, thickening to choke.
Staggering beauty, heading home solo.
The cast of tomorrow’s news stream.
Loose flesh squeezing into cabs.
Regret oozing from bursting seams.
‘She started it’ turmoil echoes.
Rubbish carts stirring up dust.
And all of the above again in a week.
Deluded and lustful cycles, a must.
Remembrance Lane
Bury barrels of price tagged joys.
That is what we did.
Spark fogs of muffled noise.
That is what we did.
Breathe loud buckets of toys.
That is what we did.
And now the cycle of waves ride on.
Simplicity, So Long
It says something of this world
when the biggest toy store in town
only sells plastic swords
that blow bubbles, flash and bark.
7.22pm on Curtain Road
Empty bars and reserved stalls
fill the stillness of nothing much
as the flocks of slight interest
prepare to arrive but never do
so the random sits, always alone
ripping beer mats and his heart
whilst remembering that time in Delhi –
an ear wash, 10 rupee cheap,
which for all of the loud, lonely noise
remains his biggest regret.
Mai & Clay
Should another
turn on to your course
like I,
they’ll warm in your glow,
for humble smiles of heart
in dusty paths of strangers
rarely arrive with
the pleasure
of compassionate company
so far from home.
Whitehall
the arches aren’t golden now
as the giant ‘m’ stretches
across near empty streets
where the night’s cleaners walk
and old giants watch on
as night buses spill passed
souls of the vacant night
that glides to a close
before the big wheel spins
over choking lights of fog
orphaned papers and thoughts
of oblivious crowds.