I everyday run for the bus. Pouring out the café, a quick stream to the next leg Lateness a subtle concern, a moment ago leafing through Du Bouchet next slicing my shoulder to spud the oyster reader. Punctual to the bus stop, though the bus dropped me a couple minutes late…
It’s been a week and two days since I had an informal chat about punctuality. It may be 2-4 minutes, I maintain they’re negotiably mine. Hours I put in as a nocturnal volunteer forgotten.
This morning I’m on a slightly different route, with a homemade moka pot macchiato, I should be on time now. My time is my own.
I’m unsure about next week. Routine defiance I suppose. A temporal fuck you of four-five minutes. A statement of ownership. An affront to money & management’s side-eye.
I prop today’s Evening Standard behind the priority seat’s folding desk.
en-route to sleep alongside my love.
The paper naturally dog-eared from today’s avid reading.
I’ve positioned it so that yesterday’s mini genocide can draw another pair of hands to take on its tear saturated text.
Bhs black trousers, polkadot blouse, with her hair… frisson.
I catch my new travelling companion’s eyes scanning the papers bold typeface.
I think she’s re-read today’s title, she leant over
nearly embracing the nape of the next row.
Her bag’s yawning mouth hung politely upon her knees,
a book lifted from her bag;
5lbs in 5 days.
Evening Standard – An English newspaper often handed out for free on public transport.
I like to dress in black,
Hood up, listening to Chopin.
Walking through the Overground carriage,
watching myself cease to exist
As people cut eyes
And the possibility of a simple perfunctory grin.
I catch you just as you slyly slink away,
the hideously trendy homme across, next
to you – peering to our volly of glances,
His Cos demeanor cool
by his atrocious cut chinos.
The deep rumble hurtles us along
the Victoria line -London’s blue artery,
it’s horizon a convincing night’s impression.
They were green
Or perhaps hazel
Our waltzing glances stealing covert gazes, Each a
second shy of a moment.
In written words ,
A million times a day
my heart calls your name.
8. Continue reading
we exchanged tender gazes,
reflecting a young amour
I write this month’s ultimate poems,
swinging in ecstatic melancholy;
as I recall this month
where my pen became keys
for Alina Baraz
Transient through the Urban Flora of London’s south,
I Drift atop rolling waves,
their depths rising, enveloping all
in each passing rock of the Bakerloo.
Deluged in Pretty Thoughts, serene
I Unfold words with each bars heartbeat,
poetry within each ear’s bud -caressed in my carriage,
I blossom your Jasmine words.