I watch the scene quite hidden, a covert
Observer of this puke-provoking , fury-promoting
Spectacle of filth and dirt.
The safety of my window serves to protect me
From this
tragi-comedy.
Here comes Neanderthal Yob,
Ejecting with expert skill
The sticky, flicky lump of gob
From his blaspheming mouth, seemingly at will.
Shoulders hunched, hood up,
Scowling at the ground;
Adolescent loathsome
pup –
Never failing to amaze and astound
Me with his sure and spiteful aim.
Such vitriolic venom emits from
His cat’s-bottom mouth,
And the nicotine-stained mucous
Speeds rapidly down south
Landing on the sad, submissive
Pavement, enriching the luscious
And ancient mosaic with another youthful masterpiece
Of delicate grey and viscous phlegm.
Depressed black joggers descend with relentless
Sorrow down his skinny, undernourished spine;
His lack-of-workman’s bottom
shines
With spotty whiteness
Against the faded gloom of washed-out Calvin Klein
Boxers, and the soles of his trainers flap
Noisily in the wind of Station Road.
Telling tales of his sexploits, his wheels
And his very shady deals.
Seven days since his last baptism
In the steamy, slimy council-grimy bathroom
Renders his darkening crevices
Rank with the overripe bloom
Of a fungal invasion.
His intense frustration
At his lack of animal magnetism
Is as evident as his
Poor digestion.
But she finds him cute,
This bouncy pink babe with the large red rose
Sprawling its way across her spongy, pale bottom,
Her lurex thong dividing its vast expanse,
The fifty pence stud glittering in her retrousse nose.
She teeters behind him, pushing the pram of desperate hope,
Wishing he would look around and remember
She existed at all.
She gives him her credit, her vouchers, her plump willing
body
And her benefit money
Which he rightly deserves, in his miaow-muddled mind;
He gives her a bruise, a kid and the clap
And he thinks it’s funny
When she starts to cry
At the sheer despair of it all. But she stays.
“Cos I loves ‘im, see, like.”
Up the street they continue their
journey,
Their unison in their warped
microcosm
Almost touching in its
pachydermatous pathos,
Getting smaller and disappearing around the corner
Of Station Road.
A symbiotic organism,
A strange elitism,
And all hope lost.
I turn away.
Mrs McDermott makes me some tea.
