BOYS’ OWN PROGRESS
Men’s inner city muscle gym leg days
are rumoured to be much shirked.
Everyone wants the pecs, sleevebustout
biceps. Anyway legs are known to
be less responsive (and calves often not
at all) to the onslaught of the laggard
sweating self in the pavement-peer-through
glass dungeon of machines. ‘That boy’s
a bit fat’ - I indicated
a small figure with gibbous armour
in a CBBC animation.
‘No, he’s not!’ the reply, shot back.
‘He’s a knight. Knights are never fat.’
Cage-fighting, kick-texting, where it’s at.
There’s been a step-up in stabbiness
too, whereby the usual 2D
Loser sign - launched at the hapless
with finger and thumb at 90º -
gets a third dimension middle finger
L blast. On the subject of the
ever-developing hand, no thriller,
no actioner would dream of someone
any longer checking someone’s pulse
as formerly at the wrist. Has to be,
for the gumshoe citizen (muscle bulk
tamed by coat), down on one knee, lightly
thumb and index to the side of the throat
of those found streetfallen or desk-slumped.
I was like result. This from a boy
walking behind in the cold dark nourished
stream of those passing the Samuel-Palmerish
church, quitting the field of fireworks. To
cap his meticulous ‘I was like’, ‘She was
like’ report of a conversation
(or stichomythia) with.