The voyagers with cheap-day tickets claspTheir ugly luggage, lollygagging fagsTo lips and snogging, leaning on the glassAnd killing time and toying with their bags.They watch me eating lunch. They stare like fishWith less charisma, less romance and poise.No voyeuristic thrills are ever gainedNo hello fears, no happy farewell kiss.If either witness wanted tears of joyThey’d have the decency to take the train.My office window used to give the park.It calmed me down to look and see the treesAnd see the birds inside the trees and drunksInside the pond and punching down the beers.But then the council slipped a whole new stopFor coaches right in front of where I sit.They said it’s for a year or maybe lessBut now my little view is always croppedAnd diesel fumes come through the glass and stingThe eyes that give the backside of the bus.The man who wears the day-glo yellow vestVeers up and down all day. His name is John.We mean to get his surname somehow yet.He punches holes in tickets with a wandThat makes his chest tip upwards when it clips,Denotes authority and right of way;But power waxes where love’s glory grows.I sat and watched the crippling of the hipsI sat and watched the soulless wand decayI sat and watched the endless trippers tripI sat and watched the summer roll awayIt's not the same. The puncher just clips holes.
These are just some seasonal haikus I wrote for fun. Props to my homeboy Basho.
April; a rabbit
Suddenley in the garden,
Sunburnt legs swollen, basking
Foolishly like sharks
Autumn leaf, rotting
Beneath a million brothers;
Sweet decay escapes
This December sex:
Duvets and central heating,
Moisture on glazing
These pages tasted like applause: So sharp at first but soon a mush;
They globulated into paste.This plastic pen was warm like ice
That doesn't melt; or glass with sweet Umami flavoured fingerprints.
This ink-line raced along my tongue: A moonray; quick and bitter; cold
And colourless; not even black. I'd know this without tasting them
Because I tried to eat the worldLike you (when I was your age) too.
stars turn supernova when they die; tyres pop and squeal before they blow;
candles shrink and gutter in their sticks. lovers’ letters flutter up in flakes
from her break-up pyres in kitchen sinks, while volcanoes sputter out the sky.
social workers burn out at their desks and it’s not till lunch break that you see
her go kicking pigeons round the park.
They carved my head
But now the letters
Will not let me sleep.
They keep me up
At night, the words
Of spells that spell
The names of trees
In lowercase, in
Case you want to see
Them join their hands
Like walkers in
The woods. I'm wide
Awake, at war
With runes that won't leave
Me alone to read.