Tristan Hazell lives and works in the shadow of the Westway on Portobello Road. What follows is a collection of observations, reviews, social comment, fiction, poetry, art criticism and more. Much of it is fiction and some of it will offend someone somewhere, I hope.

Sunday, March 12, 2017

A stolen kiss.

I stole my first kiss
I did not know but
a kiss given freely

A kiss signalled by a
clumsily assembled pout
from carelessly painted lips
in a country bus shelter

Sheltered from buses perhaps
but not from a determined girl

nor from

the public transportation
of that first stolen kiss.


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