leaving my mind behind at london bridge station

a thousand tiny windows have gone by
stacked higher and higher into the darkened sky
until they look like stars,
lonely clusters of constellations
the hushed ambience of quiet conversation
blends gently with the humming of the carriage
the repetition beautiful and endless
every minute both personal and precious
yet shared with so many
the unrivalled bliss of complete anonymity
in this moment i am anybody,
everybody and nobody
the air is rich with mystery
brief eye contact with a stranger
multitudes bloom in oceans of blue,
green, and brown
what unexpected peace i have found
through the glance of another
a thousand more hours i would suffer
below blinding screens and cancellations
forgotten tickets, and commiseration
because anywhere is better
than where i am right now
i’ll travel to the end of the earth
to escape my own thoughts
when they fill my head and begin to spill
and pool around my feet
but they cannot compete
with the encompassing rhythm
of all those tracks
that will eventually bring me back
to somewhere my head will empty
in warm, comforting safety
until i must travel again

Comments

to the daughters of builders who drive white vans

on the 6am train the men smell like my father; red bull, cigarettes, dried cement - they wake up like my father i feel safe in this carriage, these men are my father, any man with a van and one arm out the window, sunburnt from the elbow down - the infamous builder’s tan - seats so dusty i can’t breathe and i have lungs like my father, full of second-hand smoke and concrete, a touch of asbestos, i should weep for my father but my pockets are healthy i am told by my father whose hands shake as he brings another beer to his lips at 10am on a saturday morning, this is coping for my father these men cope - cope like my father - with the asbestos lungs, uneven tans, shaking hands, muscles in constant pain, water on the brain, the ever encroaching grasp of old age; with substances up the nose they unwind like my father this kind of masculinity doesn’t last forever, you know...

i can only write when i am thinking about God

I can only write when I am thinking about God and sometimes God is God and he loves me, most of the time he does not the hand that feeds me overpowered by teeth that bite he visits me at night like a shark smells blood he smells lust, guilt, and greed brought to my knees, voice hushed he picks apart my greed and my lust promising to forgive, to forget he will make me repent and regret, any pain or pleasure at his expense provided in selfless restoration a gift of his affections exchanged for endless loyalty God is not always God, sometimes he is my lover he tells me he loves me, most of the time he does not I can only write when I am thinking about God

two foxes playing at a train station at night

rotten creatures, full of pestilence and noise run! chase the last train away the last human with it, bring your nuisance here your mischief, your trickery sovereigns of the night the earth is yours, run circles round each other leave tracks upon the floor, for the day folk to find and wonder the secrets of your tiny paws

my love

Search This Blog