Underground

Down and down they go. Down escalators and stairs. Little ants marching along brightly lit tunnels. Posters and advertisements accompany them every step of the way. They spill out onto the congested platform. Toes tapping. They glance at watches every other second. A disembodied voice shrieks over the Tannoy. The impatient throng murmurs. Everyone is late. Everyone is always late. The tracks rattle. Celestial lights shoot out from the darkness. The crowd pushes dangerously behind the thick yellow line. Mind the Gap. Mind the Gap. Mind the bloody Gap. The enclosed cave fills with a thunderous roar. A gust of chilly air hits them smack in the face. The train grinds to a screeching halt. Whoosh. The doors open. Passengers fall out on top of the waiting queues. They shove back in return. They elbow. They squeeze themselves in, filling every last available space. An orgy of intertwined contortionists. The doors close. Bang. They open again. “Please keep clear from the doors. Keep clear from the doors please. ” Closed. An over packed suitcase bursting at the zipper. The horizontal rocket shoots off into the all-consuming shadows. A chorus of newspapers rustle. The Evening Standard. The Metro. The Guardian. Books, phones, iPods are pulled out from jacket pockets. Minds disengaged from bodies that loll from side to side. The salesman next to the Sheikh. The chic yuppie back-to-back with the Sports Direct clad yob. A deranged metallic clanging cries out from beneath them. Eyes peer covertly from behind books to peruse rainbow coloured maps. If eyes meet, they are averted at cosmic speeds. That is the rule. Coughs. Sneezes. Yawns. They inhale a cocktail of distilled germs. The depleting air is suffused with the aromas of a thousand take-away lunches. Greggs. McDonald’s. Nando’s. Wok-in-a-Box. M&S and Pret A Manger for the more refined. Franchise coffee is on the breath of everyone. No one dare breathe. No one can escape the monstrous melting pot moving en masse.

Should I Tell You?

Should I tell you? Should I tell you that Jim is cheating on you? Or do you know? Are you one of these modern couples that are OK with friends with benefits? And if I told you and that were true, would you think me prudish? Wouldn't it be best to tell you anyway, just in case?

But how do I tell you? Do I send you an anonymous tip-off? Do I tell one of your girlfriends so that they can break the news to you? Or do I come out with it matter-of-factly? What is the protocol in these situations? Do I invite myself over on the grounds that I have important news you need to know? But then how can I make sure Jim isn’t going to be there? Should I ask to meet you over a coffee or a walk in the park perhaps? Or is it best to avoid public places in these circumstances? Would you think it unusual or even forward of me to ask you over to my place alone? Would you decline? And if you did say yes at what part of the conversation do I bring up Jim’s cheating? Do I need to make chit chat when you come in? Or should I look serious from the start? Is this a sofa or a kitchen-table conversation? Do I serve tea? Why am I thinking about sofas and tea?

Once we are seated do I just say that I was out last weekend and saw Jim with another woman? How much more information should I reveal? Should I mention that she was blonde and beautiful? Would you want to hear about the way they kissed, the way they felt each other up? Or would that be too much? Do I tell you that I followed them from club to club, watched as they got drunker and drunker and more and more intimate? And when they finally stumbled out onto the cold damp streets just as dawn was breaking and jumped into a cab together, do I tell you that I trailed them like some seedy P.I. until they pulled up outside a hotel? Would you think my actions disturbing, excessive? Would you ask why I didn’t intervene? Why I didn’t phone you up immediately? Why I let it wait five whole days? Would you never want to speak to me again?

Or would you move into my arms and let me comfort you? Would you let me stroke your hair and whisper in your ear that everything would be OK? Do I tell you that you deserve better than Jim? Would you realise that I am better?

Written Photograph

Wisps of chestnut hair fall lightly on his unruffled forehead. Earlobes protrude from underneath his fashionably unkempt hair. Dangling from these fleshy gewgaws is a pair of earphones; the black jelly-wire frames the lower half of his face. He doesn’t react at all to the music escaping from the beetle-like speakers in his ears. Whatever he is listening to serves less as entertainment and more as a means to drown out the café babble around him so he can focus on the paperback in his delicate hands. In fact his entire willowy body seems to arch over the fantasy novel in attempt to enter the magical fiefdom contained within. He bites his tender pink lips - in all probability still unkissed - and squints in concentration as his brown as ale eyes trail the words on the page. An impish asymmetrical grin appears on his face for a fleeting second but his expression contorts back into concentration almost instantaneously.

He is cherub faced if such a cherub were amid the whirlpool of puberty. Blotches of scarlet appear around his oily temples and chin where acne molehills seem ready to erupt at any second. A faint shadow is busily rooting itself above the upper lip, destined to grow darker and denser in the coming years.

Despite it being a few sizes too big, he wears his t-shirt with apparent honour. This black garment demonstrates his allegiance to some Scandinavian metal band or other. It also makes his skin appear paler and pastier. His gawky frame hangs loosely from his shoulders as a bathrobe does from a hanger. His legs stretch out awkwardly underneath the table, right foot now tapping away idly. A hand leaves the book and reflexively flicks away the silky strands on his brow. He shifts himself into a more comfortable position, angling his body and resting his head on his hand.

Camels & Needles

Lately I've been pondering
     camels and needles
Because lately you've been squandering
     the wealth of a king
So to cure my insecurity
     I hang out in cathedrals
That dwarf your stately villas
     and shroud you in sin

For ye have received your consolation
I sure as hell need mine
Is it too much to ask
     for a soul to console?
If the good life is yours
     can't eternity be mine?

But for all my hope in balance
I know you'll tip the scales
Typical of you to not be satisfied
With the just forever flames

And while your empire rises

Mine seems further reduced
So I'll take all I can get
Even if all I can get
   is a single beatitude

No Man's Man

This no man's man
     whose neither here nor there
This gawky man-child
     who is oh so debonair

This working-class Tommy
     in middle-class skin
This staunch moralist
     abnormally attracted to sin

This proud as punch Piscean
     who sneers the horoscope
This structured traditionalist
     who subscribes to post-modernist tropes

This liberal conservative
This corporeal ghost
This humble horn blower
This ill-mannered host

This Mediterranean-Saxon
This carpenter’s son
This jack of some trades
This master of none

This loyal adulterer
This cosmetic-less clown
This industrious idler
This verbal noun

This prude
This pervert
This pleb
This ponce
This pragmatic dreamer
This pacifist who taunts

If only a Knight could slay half this beast
Then maybe the remaining half could at last be complete

Purpose

This hunk of semi-sentient bone, blood and flesh
Suffused with guilt, drives, love, and regrets
Over a quarter century has still yet to find
A purpose to which it feels naturally inclined

Thus ensues much whining and whinging
Much to the delight of friends who are inwardly cringing
“Oh do shut up you miserable man”
Their lips seem to mouth from behind their hands

But the indulgence fiend needs his fix
It’s not fair, it’s not fair, it’s not fair [he insists]
And so on goes the mantra for this pope of mope
Who with the garden-variety never seems to cope

He can never accept the phrase, “That’s life”
Or all the humdrumness of a nine-to-five
There has to be something more worthwhile
Something that will culminate in a satisfied mind

Tall are the ambitions
High are the goals to achieve
So much so that the sweet shelf seems perpetually out of reach
Which results in too much time idly spent looking at the feet

Because to look up into the sky is to realise
What good is a purpose in context with the cosmic playsite
- Where stars crash, burn and collide
- Where suns dwindle, die, and are resurrected to ten times their original size
- Where ice fountains erupt on Enceladus
- And where superior minds perhaps do slowly and surely draw their plans against us

And beyond the power of modern man’s telescopes
This whatever-it-is continues to diminish in significance and scope
The infinite canvas overwhelms our tiny boat
The waves crash down hard and swallow us whole
And with just a playful puff from the almighty gods
This speck of dust here today, could tomorrow be gone
So that all the whining and whinging of this twenty something year old
Amounts to, well ... not very much at all

Perhaps the trivial pursuit of purposefulness
Need not stem from a constant sense of incompetence

So best banish the black cat-o’-nine-tails
And let an effervescent air of positivity prevail
From here on in it’s a strict diet of good vibrations,
Karma-lite and transcendental meditation
Here begins the quest for inner peace
That will cure the heart from Western man’s disease

Still …
a purpose would be nice
and maybe, just maybe,
a rich man’s life

The Bedroom

Candles flicker against your bedroom walls
You love the mood it makes once the curtain's drawn
I hear your records play through my wall next door
I lay like you across the floor

Can you please call out
I am alone like you, alone with nothing to do
And I promise, I won’t make a sound
Just want to lie with you
In your bedroom

Rain falls hard on those Friday nights
I’m bathed in orange under the street lamp light
From down here I see your window sill
From down here I watch you still

Can you please look down?
I am out here for you, soaked to the bone for you
I need you to warm up my soul
Take me up there
To your bedroom

The Jar marked Mercy

The jar marked Mercy is empty
It sits conspicuously on her shelf
Despite all the bric-a-brac and crockery
And the mugs stained with coffee
His eyes don’t take in much else

There still is Grace aplenty
And half a decanter of Doubt
The demijohn of Muse
She’s yet to consume
As her imagination has never run out

A carafe of Lust she keeps by the fire
Deep scarlet, fruity and smooth
Every evening she pours
A glass, or four
To help get them both in the mood

But it’s the empty jar of Mercy that concerns him
As from out the cupboard a gift wrapped in ribbon she pulls
It’s their anniversary today
And somehow he now needs to explain
His bottle of Forget was full