Walter from the chip shop –
Yeah, Walter from the chip shop, procured a live fish
Still flapping and dropped it, scales and all in the fryer,
And stood looming over it going huur hurr hurr
As it thrashed about absorbing the 170 degree oil into its
Delicate gills and
Oh god. He was a oh god. He was oh god. He wasa piece o’ work.

Scanty faith mirrors in the Congo,
A duplex Valhalla, bosoms ripening on
Trees that bleed pure joy.
Veins lined with partial faecal-granite matter ran throughout
The remaining partitions of Granny’s house and made low dismal sounds as they pulsed,
Reminding us of our romance on the old Cunard.
You said:

Remember our time on the old Cunard –
I looked at your face, and you watched mine.
We washed down canapés with sherry wine.
We danced – how we danced – to Glenn Miller and band,
I adjusted my monocle, and took your fair hand.
We breakfasted on stains and viscose,
Old malted leaves, budgerigar, wretched wet feathers steeped in hot vinegar.
I think of it oftener than I use cloth softener –
Those ebullient days on the old Cunard!

that man in that phone box – he was muttering something about

the Train-Train – such a feat of engineering.
Lines of disparate bodies shuffling
Along the tracks on their knees, hands encasing
The ankles of the carriage in front – they call it the Marmite Mile.
not eight carriages but fifty or fifty-nine disproportionate compartments.
Some had just been made, and expired from being forced along the tracks by men in suits wearing heavy wristwatches. A woman shat her skirts eight or nine times and split bit her lip it
they had to move quick before the real trains came. Lacerations constant and some expired before their desks.

An old woman onlooker, big fingers for industry,
leaned over and spoke through a cloud of really old smoke,
They’d move much quicker if they’d only stand up.