Upstairs, I hear it through the walls
A monologue, it seems
Hers pitched so high
That is spears the muffle
His —
I assume it’s a his —
Too low to detect, like a whalegram.
You can hear tears in her throat
But not the words.
Sad, heart, fucking.
Somebody has done this,
Definitely a body;
Only personable cruelty can elicit
Such pinpoint hate,
Not malchance,
Nor thorny fate.
Could you open the door for me, please?
No, no, no, you’ll never advance like that:
Tailing with a “please”, like a servile rat.
And that ambiguous opener, the tip-toeing “Could”;
Let them know its non-optional, a must, more even than a “should”.
To do this, we bolt the imperative to the verb:
“Open the door”, at volume, so as to ensure that they’ve heard.
And for godsakes dispense with that awful “for me”;
Allow the cretin to retain some sense of their autonomy–
In fact, let them trust that they’re worth something to you:
A fronted adverbial — “kindly” — will do.
But why are we turning door knobs at all?
I’ll make a conservative sum to rile your gall:
Three seconds to open, a hundred times a day,
Thirty minutes a week, two hours per pay;
In a calendar year you’ve lost a whole day’s labour–
Ergonomically speaking, it leaves a grim flavour.
I’d direct you to this electric model — how its glass does so glisten —
And this way, you won’t ever even need a colleague’s assistance.
I strolled from Wandsworth to Ealing,
Sipping upon a Darjeeling;
Coffee, I think,
Is an inferior drink,
Which I can never taste the appeal in.
She had the face
Of someone on the cusp
Of fame,
Eyes vying for space with cheeks,
Eyes very convex, like fishbowls
Granted centrepiece,
Granted the entire sweep of
Her adoring oglers.
Her trousers were maroon leather;
I thought it clever how they matched her handbag.
Theme: anything for a dollar bill. Setting: south-south London, Uber territory. Two, three jabs of punch and a pastel John Dory. Restless thirty-thirst, seeking mutual thrill. Idea! We know it’s drink talking, but drink tells good stories. Follow our liquid raconteur out on to the grass. Instant blow to seat a weaker man firmly on his arse. I’m sorry but I’m so angry. Recompense, freeze. Feel like sounds have thickened in the drum. Back inside giggling with our paper cash prize, Informing every ear what it missed with its eyes. My own ear, for now, bust like a lip. For another dollar I’ll swallow that tulip.
Whisking up the northern line,
An egg in every seat;
I’d like to crack their stipples shells
To get at that white meat.
Whisking up the northern line,
An egg has cracked itself;
The kind of egg my mother has
Me put back on the shelf.
Whisking up the northern line,
One clucks into its phone;
This egg will make bad omelettes
And underglaze a scone.
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