friday sonnet (#219: bluething)

skanks, avoiding the skyliner, here in

bullet time the clichés waddle like

suica penguins, arms held stiffly in high

def 3D. late for life again, there’s a queue

in shinagawa, & you somehow thought

the express would be faster, everyone

crashed out, now up over the other tracks

& we creep to the platform & all change,

such optimism in the face of facts.

back in aomonoyokochō, determined &

suburban, the angel of coffee & the

cigarette angel flutter insistently, the angel

who pulls the strings is tying newspapers

into bundles. is it time for sleep?

friday sonnet (#218: jumper)

before the doors open, let alone close.

& on into the day, watching them pull in,

waiting for the right one, as if you weren’t

inescapably generic, as if you meant

something at last, mediocrity praised

where it counts, & each one not quite,

rivetted by snapshots, shimbashi,

hamamatsuchō, hardly stations of the

cross, hardly the gap, ocean dark

below. distracted by headlights, battery

indicator, another sliding in like an

exercise in mass & momentum, only

your inertia to thank for it, tamachi,

shinagawa, hours into hours, into days.

friday sonnet (#217: but instead)

natural enemy of the tape & this

is where we eat, the rest room’s over

there, invisible is easy, so much lingerie,

you never shoulda ran & various shades

of comprehension, instantaneous, you’re

all about it, all over it, slippery, remember

the tune then get outta my face, perpetual

surprise, you try to wake your husband

but there’s no reviving his sweater & all

those nights, tone deaf, i mean really,

cute shoes & a nose full of stockings, rent

& buckles & seriously, you need to piss,

measure any semblance of heroics &

the trenches remain, yours sincerely, t

friday sonnet (#216: maintenance)

a brief interruption of service later & sure,

batshit crazy, staring down the financial

times, hair bundled into birdnests as

technology makes today feel like forty

years ago, first aesthetically, then later,

indistinguishable from the experience,

each emotion casually watermarked,

this one stamped tantrum & you’re sloppy

& raving, spittle all over your chin.

buying the performance edition scores two

badges, a gearbox & some lurid trim, so

keep pedalling & avoid eye contact. anti-

social? you bet. saving for a modchip &

maybe headers / bitter, just a hint of twisted.