Looking For Jeremy Corbyn On The
18.26 Great Western Railway Train From
Penzance to London Paddington.
from Prima Materia, 2018
 
Looking for Jeremy Corbyn
on the 18.26 Great Western Railway train
from Penzance to London Paddington
calling at
St Austell, Par, Bodmin Parkway
Liskeard, Plymouth, Newton Abbot
Exeter St Davids, Taunton, Bristol Temple Meads
Bath Spa
Reading
and London Paddington
 
Eyes right
to see
conductor’s buttocks
framed in a green coat
 
he’s asking for tickets
he’s asking a man for his ticket
 
“Excuse me.”
 
The man has lids shut
and is resting his chin
loosely on his collar
 
“Old fella!”
“Excuse me.”
 
Shit, he’s dead
Shit, he’s fucking dead
 
“Excuse me mate!”
 
A stir, a gasp
fish on a frying pan
 
he stares at me
 
with my pupils I
communicate
 
“I’m not Jeremy Corbyn.
Have you seen him?
I know he likes trains.”
 
But the man just stares
then fumbles for his ticket
 
I now set regular vibrating alarms
using my wrist watch
I set them to stop me from falling asleep dead
 
Eyes forward
to see
two pink bobbles
atop another bobble
who is taking photos
 
she snaps
snap — snap — snap
she snaps a picture
of not a pout or pose
but a porous expression
leaking out how grim life is
 
she texts the picture
asking the soon to be recipient
 
‘Will you be my boyfriend?’
 
She is not Jeremy Corbyn
(the girl taking serious selfies)
her soon to be boyfriend
isn’t Jeremy Corbyn either
 
Eyes down
to see
a pair of swirly, whirly
red patterned boots
having a conversation
with two scraps
of tangerine peel
 
Their owner is holding
Tony Blair’s face in her lap
stroking his
thin, page-boy hair
typing love letters to him
on her Macbook, making
an eHarmony profile to
cleverly seduce Tony Blair
 
She has his face in her lap
but she wants more
New Labour to be Nude Labour
 
saucy Tony Blair and his kinky wink
he’s got those winky eyes
 
even on matted paper
even after photoshop
 
He looks at me through the gap in the chairs
and he uses his winky eyes to ask me
 
“Have you seen Jeremy Corbyn?
He
uses trains
and I thought, maybe
he might
be on here
using
this train, it’s just
he won’t return my calls...”
 
I blink back
“No, I haven’t seen him
but if I do I’ll point him
in the direction of your face.”
 
After watching the vacant seats
fail to manifest Jeremy Corbyn
I decide to give up my search
 
Who am I anyway?
 
Just a lowly pagan in a black tie
coming back from a funeral
 
What would I do if I actually saw him on the train?
The same thing I did with Phil Jupitus at Jersey Zoo?
 
Point and say his name
 
“You’re Phil Jupitus.”
“You’re Jeremy Corbyn.”
 
I imagine he would say
more than Phil Jupitus
 
maybe he’d point back
and say
“Hey, aren’t you that pagan
wearing a black tie, coming back from a funeral?”
 
I’d probably stare
a fish in a frying pan
and somehow tumble out
 
“Tony Blair’s face is over there and
he wants a word with you.”

Fleeting
from Prima Materia, 2018
 
These pasty arms made of plaster
hold the imprint of your tiny body
 
shrivelled little thing
 
The hands remember the feel of rubber
— a ball of elastic bands folding into lumps
 
Your vernix coat, moisturiser
with a water-base, it washes away
but my mind refuses to
clean the memory with a towel
 
Could I make buds of it, scented
and stuff them up my nose
to block out the dreaded aroma of roses?
 
Gazing into pools of dribble
cobalt cries
that scratch the marrowbone clear out
 
Hollow bones for rattles
shredded nerves
in place of peas or dried rice
 
There is a nagging feeling
that soon, crow’s feet
will not be the only pattering, and
learning to fly will shortly follow
 
I’ll watch you float amongst the stars
Selene in orbit
with Leo stalking close behind

Naked
from Prima Materia, 2018
 
When I strip my clothes off
they become possessed — not air
a figure forms, the buttons
eye me and pass judgment
 
Milky blues squint to decide fate
 
Could my hair be unravelled
as a cotton wheel, loose from my
mother’s wicker basket?
 
The sleeves go flat to break my back
slams, orders community service
 
They made a teacher out of me
by dyeing pound coins red
and slapping me in the face
with a fake, rolled up degree
 
Congratulations Mrs Boulton, it’s a civil servant
 
The stitching in the shin of my jeans
reads through my CV
makes suggestions and labels
my measurements with bullet points
— sharp as poppers on a fly
 
I try, but the wigs and whips lacerate flesh
until steam escapes and fades my body
 
Hard times breaking rocks with your skull
— repeating the same questions with only doubt
ever bothering to reply
 
If God were real, I imagine him to be sat on the toilet
crushing silverfish under his shoes
 
As I strip bare I see marks on my arms
old scars and contours
I am unfamiliar with them
 
For the first time I know how many chest hairs I have
I know their names; meet all of their kids
 
I scold the material, now I am judge
 
Being naked, you feel the cold more
squirm at heat
 
you know what pigment is hiding beneath
how different it is
to the colouring and freckles others see