Train Poem #4

Happy New Year Gangbangers!

Gotta be honest – only had time to write the bare bones of this one on the morning train a couple of weeks ago and, perhaps fittingly, I had to dust it off and pretty it up just now before posting …

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The lady on the seat in front

is deliberately undergoing a public metamorphosis.

 

She’s putting on quite a show

for everyone in the carriage.

 

With her palette and brushes

laid out by her side like a surgeon’s tools,

ensuring someone can’t sit down.

 

Emergency battlefield surgery is required,

before this train pulls into town.

 

The plain and pallid bed-head,

is interring herself under a max factor meadow,

regenerating inside a Clarins cocoon.

 

With a Freudian mirror clamped between her stockinged pins,

forcing her skirt up into her crotch…

My god it feels so wrong to watch,

but she’s right there in my face,

invading my sacred morning space.

 

She carries on as if there’s no one there,

like she doesn’t even care.

Only there is, and she does.

 

Otherwise she’d have done all this at home,

or would wait and do it in the train station bathroom.

But for some reason, it is important to her,

that we all get to witness her theatrical preparations.

 

We privileged few are privy to the magician’s secrets.

We get to see behind the curtain;

the before and after:

the bedraggled budget purchase with the price tag left on,

and the lavishly repackaged birthday present draped in bows and ribbons.

 

Promising some great reward,

if you can just undo those tricky knots,

tear the paper off,

and open it up.

 

Perhaps she has a childlike need for attention?

Perhaps it’s a clever post-feminist statement about office gender politics?

Perhaps it’s a vulgar form of courtship for would-be suitors?

Perhaps she’s daring a cocksure mate

to step up and grasp the lure,

so she can bite his big head off,

and let her foul brood feast on the remains?

Perhaps she needs to feed off our excreted reactions

to to replace a thing she lacks?

To complete the effect?

To cement the cracks in her suit of armour?

 

Or perhaps she’s just rather disorganised and late for work,

and I’m vomiting my easy prejudice

into the disposable coffee cup

of her reluctant public pickle?

 

As the train pulls into the main station,

her transformation is complete.

That drooling office lovefool won’t suspect a thing!

as his hand slides into his trouser pocket,

to hide a hard-on with his wedding ring.

 

The suburban diva has pulled it off again!

The carriage erupts in a standing ovation!