Poem #26

Two gentlemen- this, at least,

We can confirm, that they are gentlemen-

Confer beneath the projector.

Whether they are here to critique,

Or come off-peak, like Tuesday noon,

Or bought out all two-sixteen seats

To secure themselves exclusive views,

We cannot say.

I only fear they come here for me,

To watch peel from my sweaty legs

The Batman pyjamas, to hear me,

In thought, curse the thermostat,

Which I am too tired to rise

And turn clockwise.

Poem #24

I resent the term push-up; it’s

Press-up.

I press myself to carpet with

Inhale.

I hold the contraction, until

Up. Three.

I like to pretend, on my

Way up,

That my breath assists with

The lift,

As if I were a hovercraft,

Exhaust-

Ing through the nostrils, escaping

Trace smells,

Like footprints, or my best friend’s

Vomit.

Poem #22

He raised his wine,

Just to lower it twice as far:

A half-arsed toast.

The window scene

Swung full into view:

Five other guests, who of the botched

Behest, were ignorant. The culprit had

Burrowed his eyes into a stain,

Whilst failure snapped his neck at

90⁰.

He looked silly between the laughing bottles,

Like skinny jeans and gel amidst four

Women in corporate noir.

The kind of faux pas

To make a man say

‘I am just going outside and may be some time.’