pubic transpurt

Long Road, Clapham Common

oh, why can’t we just have sex?

you like me and i like you

so why can’t we just do it?

yes, right here in this bus stop

ok, well, maybe not here

but somewhere close by

in the very near future

why can’t that happen?

i don’t understand

no, i don’t want to talk any more

and coffee gives me gas

dinner?  don’t push it, love

i just want to have it off with you

you know, in the old fashioned way

naked, just the two of us

no talking, only porking

a date? oh for fuck’s sake

the moment’s going, love

why can’t we just bang?

instead of holding hands

and me trying to make you laugh

and saying anything

literally, anything

to get your clothes off

things along the lines of

“yes, my favourite colour’s teal” and

“no, i want to take my time, too…”

do i shit!

all i want to do is hump you senseless

on the futon back at my flat

it would be great

we could do loooooads of jiggy jig

and then eat jaffa cakes

and watch Match of the Day

what do you say?

what do you mean you’ve got to go?

your bus is here?

the number eight?

brilliant, that’s near where i’m staying

we could bonk on the bus

if you’re running late

or on the steps of your house

if you really can’t wait

hey, don’t look at me like that

like i’m some dirty perv

only after one thing

what a nerve! As if!

is that what you think of me?

we’ve only just met

and all I can think of

is parting your legs?

that is pretty astute, to be fair

so, yeah…

is this going anywhere?

i didn’t think so

you made it quite clear

when you called the police

when i sniffed your hair

though, it’s not all bad

the cop shop’s right next to my gaff

i can walk home from there

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liek

facebook-meh

if i see it in the reader

i don’t think i need to

read the full feature

so i  “like” it and run

and just keep scrollin down

searching for the gravatars

of the three or four out there

who i actually care about

sometimes, i forget

and lose my timing

panicking and liking

that 8,000 worder

on the history of albanian goat herders

that they only put up 8 seconds ago

so it must seem most unlikely

to them, at the other end

that i’ve read the lot

and digested it and considered the fate

and health of albania’s late great agricultural wealth

in fact, it might appear

that i’ve only read the first ten words

and then swerved off course

consumed by my vice

of pressing “that” button

that’s the real life social equivalent

of calling something “nice”

lower case i

school-profit-47

the average boy or girl

has a vocabulary of

seventy five thousand words –

if that’s right

how come my son

can’t form a sentence without using “like”

at least once or twice

and he can’t seem to limit

his use of “innit?”

no matter how hard he tries –

and if I hear him say “bruv” one more time

to anyone other

than his actual brother

I’m gonna go nuts – I’ve had words with his mom

she seems to think it’s a fad, a phase

that he’s going through and that

all of a sudden he going to start

spouting off verse like wordsworth or coleridge

and riffing on tolstoy with his head in the fridge

i’m not as optimistic as my spouse

because i’ve heard the crud that drops from his mouth

when in the company of friends

when it’s all “rad, yeah, totally” and “d’you know what i mean?”

Well, i’d know what you meant if you enunciated better

and didn’t confuse me by forming every sentence

with a question mark at the end(?)

i know that language is alive

therefore, it must evolve

a new word is invented every ninety seconds

or so i’m told

it’s just that at school, i had grammar class

and yes, it was dry and uninspiring

all gerunds and subjunctives, naming words

passato prossimo and reflexive verbs

but most of it went in

and now i’m glad that i know where to place

apostrophes’ (joke) “and” parentheses 

and it’s with this wisdom

that i can commit the greatest parental

cardinal joy, that of projecting my childhood misery

onto that of my favorite boy

sick squid

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you know, i pity the fool

who gets sucked in by you

there was an eight to one bargain plea

taken out by a jury of able seamen

and disabled heathens, replete with catgut

and the souls of little children

but life went on; repeat, repeat

while your many hands made work of me

you’d think you’d elicit sympathy

looking so tentacley and shit

but no, public opinion’s not cephalopod

friendly, it seems, so you’re left high

and dryin’ out on the harbor wall

where it all began, back in 2004

when i recall the first time i saw

your legs and the small

of your back and your shoulders

quite broad, and i thought “she’s a sort,”

you know, for a bird with a face like

Neptune’s sock drawer

then we got married, didn’t we?

on brighton beach, we stood in the sea

and you laughed because i fell over a wave

and i laughed because it was my perfect day

even soaking wet in a suit, I wanted to be there

i wanted you, and sure enough, post reception

we went back to the suite and we made love

in eight positions, it was a steamy affair

four arms and ten legs, slime on the chairs

and then we had bruce, our son and heir

a beautiful kid, he takes after you

except he doesn’t look like a squid,

which is really good news

ten years further on, it started going west

when you flirted with bruce’s judo teacher

laughing at his shitty jokes and suckering his chest

one night, i went to see him, to knock him out cold

but he put me in a choke hold and i passed out

and pissed myself in front of all the kids

and then they started calling bruce “pissy squid biscuits”

whatever that means, and we started to fight

every night and he cried and he cried

and he begged you to live with me

but you had the law on your side

cold and oblivious, they gave him to you

the situation was ridiculous,

because you’re three quarters terrible mum

and one quarter hideously amphibious

soon after I heard you’d hit the bottle

the stress of being a single mum

it hit you harder than most, I suppose, because

you can drink eight bacardis at once

but at least I got him back, little bruce

he’s safe and sound at home with me

and luckily he can’t see you now, head bowed

and naked, falling into the sea

you’re dried up and worthless

Kelly Mari

sextopus

dancing-hair-drunkenly-dance-girl-wallpaper-53c9a5c616552

six legs, six breasts

and the rest

my greatest invention yet

with all three of her heads

turning heads

they’re tricky to ignore

for sure

they’ll leave you impressed

impeccably dressed and manicured

it’s impossibly hard to remove them

from shoe stores

a force to be reckoned with

sexually speaking

it might be the night of your life

that stitched-up foursome

of which you’ve been dreaming

but taking part

is not for faint heart

but if you think you can take it

i give you fair warning that

they’re a pretty freaky naked lot

and in the light of the morn

they resemble

an amputee pawn shop
and if you’re wondering

which one’s the “real” her?

she’ll soon let you know

when she’s full of tequila

on a saturday night

and dancing to bieber

and you try to feel her

and two pairs of legs

remain on the floor

while one pair swing up

and your balls are no more

herne

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i yearn to return to herne

to be carried by stork

in a swaddle of flannel

across the english channel

over dover’s hills of chalk

to the small village in kent

where i was sent

to spend/misspend

the beginning and end

of my schooldays and fend

for myself all summer

against my brothers

and others

who may or may not now be dead

but who cares?

i can smell the smoky fields of stubble

still feel the pulse of the fence

and the depth of the puddles

and the knowing glare of the farmers concern

as i uproot his beetroot

and leave his best bull upturned

and zig zag run from his gun

into the arms of the sun

and get back home just in time

for schweppes and lime and to

watch nasties of a video kind

that may or may not have damaged

my prepubescent mind

because there’s nothing like a little “elm street”

when you’re two weeks from thirteen

but, first things first, i need

a stork of some worth

that can handle my girth

and won’t ditch me in the brine

the moment it sees that i’m thirty nine

and seventeen stone

and bereft of a diaper (sometimes)

no longer a toddler

in fact, i’m a writer (sometimes)

for tatler and country life

and that other one

with a goose on the cover

you know, “goose weekly” or some other

yet i digress

my concerns with the reliability of birds

are dwarfed when compared

to the fact i’ve just heard

that herne is no more

the village, it seems was

razed to the land

when a terrorist attack on the WI

knocked over

a victoria sponge

and four jars of jam

it’s so sad, so needless

to think that all of

my memories of those long summer evenings

and the ducks on the lake

have been replaced

with boiled raspberry seedless and

a charred slice of cake