The urban legend going round the mummy club
A woman
On a tube
Breastfeeding her baby, 5 months old, under her t shirt.
Not **** out
No feminist flags waving
No brazen cocky smile.
Just a hungry baby and a mother made by nature
And some milk

"Put em away Love", slurs an ugly man halfway down the carriage.
The other passengers are divided.
Some sink deeper into their headphones, under their broadsheets.
The others are ready for revolution, sit up straighter and plan an attack phrase or a protective move.

But this is what she's been waiting for since she so triumphantly became a successful, proud breastfeeder.

With a wet plucking noise she pulls her baby from the ****** where he was so contentedly feeding, where his warm little head was halfway to milky coma dreamland.
And she holds him aloft, her grip is confident and full. No one is afraid she will drop him, but he does not want to be there.
And in the stark light of the carriage, arms and legs chilly and free in the air he begins to flail them about. His voice throws out mews to every window of the carriage, turning into scratchy shouts as his protest gets stronger.
Until the baby, in a blue furry jumper, little bear ears for cute effect, is screaming.
Red faced, and with tonsils and tongue vibrating in the storm of his voice.
Arms and legs swimming frantically, looking for the bank of the river where warm mummy sits.
And over the storm, mummy looks over at the swaying, squinting man and shouts,
"WOULD YOU PREFER THIS?"
In one movement she cradles the yelling blue cub, shushing and quietly speaking to him as only a mother can, offering her ****** to his mouth until his round fuzzy head is bobbing and his mouth quietly busy resuming his meal.
"Or this? " She looks over at him.

The man mutters to himself and looks away. At the next stop he gets off the train, tripping down the step onto the platform.

The mother releases the challenge in one large breath.

She looks up at the two young men sat in front of her.
They are smiling, staring in awe. Choking and speechless one of them starts to applaud her.
Clapping her and shaking his head, his mate joins in.

i am made of...
thought...
ink and pen and paper... and so much more.
scribbled phrases on diner napkins.
post it notes stuck to walls.
scrawled doggerel in bathroom pens.
phrased ideology in lined notebooks.
spinnered words on lazerprinted A4.
scraps of inklings, on ripped butcher's bags and wrappings.
condolences in funeral books.
ideas capital lettered on cards,
pinned to cork boards.
epitaphs stonemasoned
into granite blocks.
fury arranged just so,
on parchment.
newsprinted with loose blurry, black ink on broadsheets
scribed by pointed stick on
firm wet sand.
notes on heavy cards, of love
and light bright shiny stuff.
discarded sentence startings, left crumpled, lost in a bin.
loss, written with red wine on white table cloth.
art, etched on vellum anciently old, suprisingly relevent.
tapped into tablets both stone
and techview.
blue and red markers squeaked onto white boards.
daubed on canvas with a fine sable brush.
tatttoo-ed upon ones flesh.
carved into wooden school desks.
pressed into moist clay by delicate fingernails.
marked so deeply upon a soul.
chalked to cement,
to stay for...
but a short season.
written for some very, (un)important reason.
courage to speak, sing, whisper, shout, cry, laugh, observe and ponder.
this is me....
i am a word written down.. any word, any word.
i am undeniable, desirable often incomplete
always open  always waiting
for some one...
......just like you ...
to open your heart let me in
to recognize a new start
to have a play, a scribble,
doodle, pen jive. to become
alive.... to thrive,
just begin with a single letter.....then another,
go on be brave...
..........grant me liberty....

The mainstay of guests,
Their backs against chairs
That are backed against walls,
Readily seated and settled
Into tight knit sub communities
And discussion cells…
Thrashing out social failings
And political ineptitudes
Gleaned from broadsheets
And RT News updates,
Mumbling agreements
Or gentle dissents,
Some too ****** to participate
(should have “passed the kouchie
‘pon the left hand side”).
One spills red wine onto white cloth
And they all laugh longer than necessary
About the irony of it all
Even though there was no irony
In the situation to begin with.
There are a small handful of male guests
That I feel I could get along with.
I give way in the doorway
For the hostess to deliver nibbles.
There are a handful of female guests
That I think I’d like to ****
(the hostess included),
But none of this allays the reluctance
To step through the threshold.
The hostess exits the room
As I pin myself to the hallway wall,
“It could be you”, I think,
And try to relay this through a raised eyebrow smile
That goes unnoticed.
I attempt my break in
Just as the conversation turns to
The importance of contemporary art
In modern society
And the relevance of Jim Morrison’s poetry
In the cerebral world of words.
I search audibly for a conversation
Centred around Adele’s latest album release…
And I NEVER, on a good day, want to talk about THAT.
In for a penny, I take the step with a fuzzy indifference
And am drawn to a hand extending the offer of a spliff,
And to the ***** of empty wine glass on full bottle,
And a “will you, won’t you?” expression,
And I trip and fall over a synthetic fur rug
Lying, recumbent, too scared to take my eyes
Off the pendulum light bulb that hovers above me
And all I can think is that the hallway
Was a much safer place to be.

Copyright Marc Hawkins 2017

She crossed her legs and dotted the i's
I drank Bacardi neat.

In that dream she seemed unassailable or
perhaps it was me being incapable,
either way
I opened up the page of another day.

When times are tough and the tough get going,
I'm staying put,

Chapter five was a revelation
a celebration
Bacardi again and a gin for the Dame
(she's American you know)

And the day heads into a Tucson sunset
scattering shadows on the sands all about me.

They used to stand on
street corners
selling their favours
for a few dollars,
yes
vending machines are
from a bygone age,

everything's twenty four seven
guaranteed by that heaven you're
unlikely to see,
because
vice is like popcorn
you love it at night
at the cinema, right?
and come the morn'
it's all popped away
quite neatly.
and
you forget.

Out in the real world they march around like angry ants

huddled masses each in their  lone planets, never seeing

eyes averted, grim faces, grimmer minds, quick steps

as if every one is searching for something lost in the wind

never seeing who's next to them, never knowing who's lost or

lonely



In the subway heads are buried in broadsheets or giveaways

voices hardly rise above whispers as papers rustles in turns

a cough there, a sneeze here, doors opening, doors shutting

only the voices of kids and teenagers peel in the carriages

A pregnant lady stands, no male got up and offered her his seat

the carriage is a sealed capsule going to space and all is plugged in



Come evenings and in slippers and comfy dressing gowns

life suddenly begins, computers fires up and every one

rushes into communities online, its facebook, its instangram

its twitter, its this and its that, virtual humanoids in virtual lands

the frustrated trolls dribbling spittle, mad eyes rolling, springs alive

their day has began as they take seats in their Office of Hate and

Insanity



Hello Pippa, , hello John, hello Blanko, and the chatters begins

stories are shared, pictures downloaded, gossips do the rounds

My wife did this, that person grows okra and **** tell of his
students

you could almost hear ices clinking in glasses as if all were at a
party

Troll 1 has that Posh successful lady, she serves at the cafe, in her
sight

Troll 2 is after the ex who told everybody he has a little floppy ****

Troll 3  has it in for the that flashy rich black footballer with the Bentley



Tomorrow they will all go out again, wearing blank faces marching like ants

eyes down turned, muted voices and heads buried in rustling papers

Some would sneeze and some one would clear their throat loadly

Pippa may be seated next to John but neither would know each other

Bobby cancells seeing mum later, he's got to finish that Minecraft battle

Eddie retired, sits all day surfing, waiting for all his friends to come online

Whilst Sammy has started virtual *** webcaming with that Chatrulette ******

Human lives go on. but its in the virtual world now, minus our humanity.

CRAZY LONELINESS HIJACKS MEMORY OF A BEAUTIFUL GIRL

Last night
I missed you so much

that I made love
to your nightdress

passionately

now your nightdress
hides from me

slinks under covers
and pillows

avoids my eyes.

I can't take
another night

without you.

Your nightie
can't take another night

with me.

I am holding
your dresses

hostage
threatening them with

kisses...caresses

if they make one
false move.

The rest of your clothes
tremble in the wardrobe

...come back to me.

*

Ahhh back in the day when poetry was the new rock'n'roll and we sold poetry in broadsheets from pub to pub and all piled into an auld van and headed down the highway to the southern counties and turn up at a local radio station and proclaim ourselves in poetry so that that night people would be enticed into readings at arts centres and the like...those be de days. A mechanic who" didn't give a toss about poetry" and underneath a car tinkering with its thingymabob heard me reading my "nightdress poem" on the radio and came along to hear me read it...he was very put out when I didn't and then I had to read it then and there on the pavement and he went away satisfied. One of my best performances and one of my best audiences.

This must be '84 or'85 as in '86 I took the boat to Land of the Angles and ensconced me self there for the better or the worst of it.