Poem #93

She wanted so bad to be edgy,

To square her rounded mould:

Adidas for Joules, vaping for baking,”

Was a mantra she to herself told.

Each day in her cap a new feather

(She donned a fresh peak from Ellesse):

MD, EDM, and avid Corbynism

Were the limes from which she squeezed zest.

But one balmy afternoon whilst reading–

That Postmodern bulwark, Infinite Jest

Her eyelids drooped, her head soon followed,

Until her chin found respite on her breast.

She awoke– oh horror!– to a shapely

Metamorphosis, a most peculiar bodily lesion!

Where once limbs and curves, now

Twelve vertices: enough for a dodecahedron.

Poem #89

Clean strides up Fulham Rd,

Landing on the heel,



From the feet.

Ahead: a cigarette, pinched between

Fingers, propped up by a thumb.

Hold breath for the overtake…

Relax too soon–

Ashy cloud inhaled,

COs wound


Round haemoglobes–

Cast loathing shoulderwise

Like salt,

Or a child sent early to bed.

Odious habit.

Shake it off.

Continue into the smog

Of a thousand rush-hour cars

Up Fulham Rd.


Poem #87

He was on the couch again.

He was having thoughts again.

Thoughts about killing Grandma.

Sheila inked on her Moleskine:

Primary caregiver’s primary caregiver.

They sat in silence for fifty-nine minutes.

Then he admitted: she’s old, I’m young–

I won’t succumb to her arthritic thumb.

Nodding like a pendulum, Sheila

Penned a careful addendum:

Remind Karl re: Boohoo order.