(20 minute poetry)


Light blue touch paper and run.

Bangers
hangers on
I always seem to be around
when the underground gun
goes off.

It's like bubble gum
a sticky mess.

Stress?
you could say,
although it may be
a due paid to me
for
imagining things might
get better.

Friday should be a good day
will be a good day if I get
my way.

At the present time
I'm located
to the left of the
Central line

Zombies in berets
nibbling on cold chicken cuts
old men who look like death
warmed up
(which the chicken should have been)

I've seen bare thighs and black eyes,
a neat nest of ******* and more
this I suppose is what the Central line's for,
the gawpers and those that stare, the rubberneckers who don't care that you know.

If I closed my mind to this carriage I could find a way to escape
but I'm curious and always will be
I want to see the cauldron,
life bubbling, boiling, frothing up, want a sip of the nectar.
I detect a
whiff of disapproval or it could be stale sweat which you get now and then from the zombies and old men and cold chicken cuts.