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


I press myself to carpet with


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,


Ing through the nostrils, escaping

Trace smells,

Like footprints, or my best friend’s


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


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.’