I have always imagined that Paradise will be a kind of library- Jorge Borges

Thursday, 24 February 2011


A silver Fiat drives alongside the bus, there's a dog in the back of the car, we stare at each other; this is the most meaningful exchange I've had with anyone in a long while. The man in front of me conceals balding with a comb-over moderately well, I can see sunspots on his head. He's wearing a sheepskin jacket, the wool's gone yellow, some may mistake this discolouredness as vintage worn, but my nose detecting nicotine tells me otherwise.

I chose my seat poorly. The black silkiness of an Asian lady's hair comforts me.

Bus halts, it's nine-thirty in the morning, that's when all the OAPs are entitled to get on for free, there's a queue of them. Flap caps, headscarfs, raincoats, checked wheeled bags, sapient wrinkles get seated. The last in line struggles to stand as the bus driver jets off again, She's not old- late twenties tops. Her breasts are epic huge, and clearly she is not wearing a bra, God help her. She sits next to me, God help me, and once again I'm reminded that passing my driving test is one of life's imperatives. Our legs touch, instinctively I want to recoil my leg into the little room I have left, but I don't want her to be conscious that I don't want my leg to touch hers, so they remain touched to save any feelings being offended. If it were summer I wouldn't be wearing tights so we'd be skin on skin. My left side would be glued to her arm and leg, whilst also having my right side melt against the glass sun. This is the only time I will be thankful that it's not summer.

Off the bus and walking down an alley cutting to college, I notice 50 pigeons on a roof, they all raise a wing at me, I give them a telling smile of 'if I had a handful of maggots your mouths would be filled' and they puff their breasts in salutation. On the right are a row of terrace houses, there is a cauliflower in the last patch of cement garden. I walk towards a group of tigers on Horton road. They are orange streaks, maximum lip-liner, and bed hair deep in vanity. Their bras are stuffed with attitude, a car beeps.

Friday, 4 February 2011

Under Nature's Law

Her mouth is bloody.
Her shredded tongue sprawls out
Like a birth of worms engaging the birds,
They hungrily tug
And sing O Joyful! Joyful!
Her spine makes a row of eggshells.
Eyes unused, looking like spawn
Looking for tadpoles.