Group collective nouns.

A fringe of emos.
A curl of indies.
A wall of bouncers.
A quiver of models.
A quench of tourists.
A bibble of morons.
A bale of nonces.
A litter of hairdressers.
A chunk of fatties.
A throng of coppers.
A pint of drunks.
A coven of sluts.
A bugger of tramps.
A stench of students.
A gaggle of twats.
A snap of teens.
A flood of fans.
A moider of Italian crows.
A thunk of geeks.
A bless of idiots.
A cloud of fashion students.
A doom of art teachers.
A haze of smokers.
A Chiswick of wankers.
A mince of male dance students.
A flock of cunts.
A loiter of chavs.

You know the one.

Not like all the other ones, she twists in the wind, goes with the flow, fluid. Ink in water. Smoke and spiral fingers of golden mane. Blue window eyes, too blue for paint or words, inhuman, angelic. Wrists thick with collected bracelets, hands busy at the keys.
Thick and red, framing well planned words, hiding pearly biters, holding hand rolled cigarettes, gentle at the tea cup, lips atuned to smiling. All technicolour cotton on pretty bronze, lying in and holding tight. A shiny thing, my secret, my tinkerbell.

the commuter

Collapsed on weathered tiles,
it's nearly breaking dawn,
after endless neon miles,
of tunnels under ground,
stuffy air recycled,
sweating bodies all crammed in,
pressing at the windows,
coal black and paper thin,
grabbing at the handles,
swaying, all in time,
regular as clockwork,
as mice play on the line,
uncomfortably quiet,
must be nearly home,
same again tomorrow,
with all the other drones.