Afternoon page 2

Storyteller, narrator, it was another, but a sleepless, timeless morning, and my tummy didn't growl for some Weetos cereal and call to get that jam slammed on toast.
"Awwww poor belly lost its appetite."
Hungriness stirring belly lust, beating his empty stomach, twisting spoons, splurges forks, knives for mooore.
Lights blinking, still awake in the early 11am, finding my diary of planned agendas for today is...Monday.
Early Monday morning grey, the day seems a little dull without any colour mixing the Big Smoke time in my diary, the acrylics harden the realities of my cinematic world.
Old friend hyena laughter of mine calling, bitching about his Halford's Manager, and asking to join his lonesome company at Southside Wandsworth, where he is diving his hairy face, devouring buckets of KFC, later he's at HMV, shark attacking BluRays, Danebury Avenue, playing Call of Duty Modern Warfare 2.
Can't beat the game wizard, but tries, tries and he tries.
Still he fails in the end.
But the rest was in the cinema watching Rise of The Planet Of The Apes, loud and action packed like it was Leathal Weapon 4.
I only wish it was me and her my girlfriend, in the back row, where it's dark.
Some buttered popcorn perhaps, and a large coca-cola.
Take her to a couple of museums, to be intimate with artistry and history.
Inspire hands in eye to eye conversations, the world is a gallery, the afternoon is a work out session, a gym class session.
The day doesn't sleep without the evening taking the sun down to South America, and up to North America for some common light.
Light only gardens can endure its rich photosynthesis.
Every hour in Wandsworth, take out spots, rush hour commences at platform 11, platform 2 and platform 15.

Calling at Wandsworth Common, Balham, Stretham Common, Putney, Richmond, Twickenham, Kingston, Norbury, Selhurst, West Croydon, Waddan Mash and East Croydon.
Eight carriages taking briefcase administrators, business people, secretaries, conference meetings, foreigners, sales people on their way wealthy and tired as bloodshot bats.
Traffic build up like a spine in Clapham Junction, youths window shopping JD Sports, Foot Locker is the best, Greggs will only put you on weight 250 grams at a time.
156 is taking us Wimbledon Tennis, 37 will take us to Putney Heath, 39 to Putney Bridge.
I can see Underground Tube from up here, my general route on 337 to Richmond, but in this case it's Upper Richmond Road I travel to, I carry on to.
The Underground doesn't get any nearer than East Putney Station I sometimes use for other alternatives, through East London ways it's Walthamstow Central, Hackney, Stradford, Docklands and Bethnal Green.
It's a different world out there, community wise and Tower Hamlets look higher on Shoreditch High St Station.
I'll be in Bromely-n-Bow neighbourhoods, guitar strings my jams in estates where raw meets acoustics in the bedroom.
Trying to hold it, hold it longer before it's a rat race to the bathroom.
And I had to just let it out, let it go like my fists tighten with sticks and stones.
Drop till my bones riddle with laughter, I made it back on the 14, Piccadilly Circus gave me highlights of British souvenirs, performers give break dance on concrete consumptions, pedestrians pass through with Tesco shopping bags, Waterstone's books in arms, looking forward to midnight closed eyes while I recite the evening page at 12.