Evening Standard Anyone?

‪the‬
‪electric hum‬
‪of a tube train‬
‪approaching‬.

alluminium tube
slipping on steel.
a steely faced driver
at the wheel,
thinking of home
and a frothy pint
and a pie
and a joke
with a bloke
he barely knows,
called Jim,
who works at
the market
with Tim.

‪the sticatto clip of the track‬,
‪the squishy swoosh of brakes‬,
‪the clunky whisper of doors‬,
‪the rush of careless alighters,

tripping and pushing and cursing and rushing.

‪the pulling slosh of air‬,
‪the nameless platform scrum‬,
‪as commuters tired, tetchy‬
‪and late arrivals run‬.

‪and i,‬
‪dry mouthed‬
‪with excitement‬,
‪wait like a child for‬
‪the journey to come‬.

‪”mind the doors”‬
‪i suck in my belly‬,
‪hand to bar‬,
legs like jelly,
‪jolting, glancing‬
‪at
multitudinous,
multiflavorous,
multicoloured
strangers glued‬
‪to iPods and newspapers
as they bounce and move in
a choreographed
underground dance.

a
world
free
of race
and
creed
and
gender.

a multilateral
disarray
of blood and breath,
sway and swoon
in a cocoon of
couldn’t care less.

nevertheless.

i watch everything
in childish wonder
until ‘Holborn is the next station’
catches my eye
on the scrolling display
and i bet on
left or right.

then aware of

the sticatto clip of the track‬,
‪the squishy swoosh of brakes‬,
‪the clunky whisper of doors‬,
‪the rush of careless alighters

(including i)

tripping and pushing and cursing and rushing
and crushing on escalators which break into the sky
and cold fresh London air.

evening standard anyone?

Stan on Spoons.

in the back of a van
beside a caravan with
Deirdre and Pam cooking
noddles to have with our Spam,
with Pam’s uncle Stan
accompanying on spoons.

before then…

it was fun while it lasted
our ménage a trois.
it was quaintly exotic
though not entirely erotic,
squeezed into a transit van
beside the fun park.
in the dark.
smothered in stork.
and beef dripping.

in the dark
we’d bump and grind
and unwind to Wham and
Patsy Cline. and sometimes
a track from James Last.
it was a veritable blast.

it couldn’t last.
and it didn’t.
the final straw
was a knock on the door
from the filth and
Pam’s uncle Stan
from stoke. i almost
had a stroke.
from Pam.

(Deirdre was busy with the noodles)

Meanwhile
in the caravan next door
Sally and Bill taught
their pet Pekinese tricks
as they watched apprentice
bricklayers laying bricks
on the caravan channel.

(blissfully unaware of the shenanigans)

we went quietly.
with pc plod and uncle Stan
from stoke.
and after formalities
we were released
into the Skegness breeze,
back to our van
beside the caravan
with Stan.

(the main man)

and we became
a ménage a quatre,
Pam, Deirdre, Stan and me
in a van
beside a caravan,
quaintly exotic
though not entirely erotic
bumping. grinding.
spamming.

with Stan on spoons.

(playing badly, of course)

Without the wine

a
crunch of bone.

splinters
like shards
of toblerone,
chewy bloody triangles
of sinew clinging to mangled
mess as I, singing
with wine,
cry like a baby
distressed.

the morphine kicks in.
oozes like a dream.
a wave of dreams.
a riot of dreams.
it seems I am broken.
bent. misshapen.

a fog of sirens and lights.

i awake. dry mouthed.
hooked. tubed. in pain.
my mother cries.

i am bloody, pissed off,
yet very much alive.

i have a switch to press.
a magic morphine switch.
i sleep again.
dream again.

now i limp.

not noticeably to you.
but to me i lumber
and teeter totter like
a lurching imbecile.

flashback to

a tractor
meets
two wheels.
a blur of metal
and tarmac
and hedges
and steel.

i never did get my motorbike back.
that block of aluminium,
leather and speed.

but I got my life back.
my life with a limp.

i was young.
invincible.
untouchable.
unbreakable.

i did as I pleased.

selfishly.

and. I would do it again.
but without the wine this time.

Empty air

each
hung over
head-busting
alarm-filled morning
i wake and snooze
and snooze and snooze some more

then
falling out of bed
onto the floor where
sometimes i snooze some more

before
i scratch and yawn and slippers on
i sit to pee, too lazy to stand
nursing my phone in my hand

no messages today

morning
is a gut wrenching pain
she reminds me
again and again
that i’m alive

my end game hasn’t come as yet.
not yet

i turn my brain on
put my clothes on
sip a coffee or two

i think of you
and your curves
and eyes
and teeth
and hair
and smile
and i sigh

after all,
it was you
leaving me
that makes me
feel like dying
giving up trying
not caring about waking
falling asleep crying

a sad lonely shell of a man

it is raining outside
and big soft raindrops
cling to the window pane
a melee of precipitation
does nothing to fuel my
excitation about the day ahead

i consider
going back to bed
to sleep and dream
of multifarious things with wings

but…

i persevere
with this trite
existence of mine
dance to my
melancholic tune
imagine picnics
with Clair de Lune
by the light of the
silvery moon

today will be like
every other day
the polite nods
the quiet whispers
the offers of nights out
the hints of nights in

today will be like
every other day
the meal for one
the pop of a cork
the smell of a book
the stale empty air

it is still raining.

A bang and a wimpy

she
nuzzled my ear.

i
half asleep, yawned,
rolled on my side,
my eyes opened wide
and smiled.

she put her finger
to my lips and whispered,

“fancy a bang and a wimpy?”

an
entwined
quivering
smouldering
mound
of
pink
bottoms
and
tits,
cock
and
bits
ensued

sliding
in sheets
lips sweet
with kisses

hips
bumpedandground

until several
near misses later
we came
in a crescendo
of religious exhortations.

sweet, fucking, Jesus!

spent.

slumped
as one
to smooze
and snooze.

the promise of a wimpy forgotten.

today. tomorrow.

today is already a memory.

written.
filed away.
forgotten.

today is already history.

mine.
yours.
theirs.

today has disappeared

with.
abang
and
awhimper.

tomorrow. ah.

tomorrow is an enigma.
a promise of a pleasure dome.
a call to prayer.
a mass of writhing
bodies and thoughts.

and love.
and birth.
and death.
and promises kept and broken.

safe from harm

i spent
a lazy afternoon
watching squirrels
treedancing.

quicknimble
treerats.
thosesilverflashes
quickentrancing.

running corkscrew
rings around ringed
trees flush
with verdant spring,

stopping only
to scratch an itch
or watch a plump
pigeon snoozing.

i wish
i was a squirrel.
tree dancing.
safe from bombsandcarsandknivesandguns.

a silver flash
in the canopy,
watching plump
pigeons snoozing.