These feel like the end days
Of life. The sun, the moon,
The clouds that move, the
Train that stops at every stop
And then goes back again.
The cyclists in the queue
At the traffic lights, leading
South. How long it feels, this
March to death, this mess of
Locks and wheels and limbs
That we call civilisation. How
Vile the stench of sweating
Plastic and half-eaten sandwiches
Discarded in the wrong section
Of the bin, into general rubbish
The travel time
The bus line
The sound of snacking and
The woman who tells
Us what we are
On and where we are
Going, repeating
For new arrivals
Or the senile
Or robots forgetting they
Got the Forty Three.
Wheels on the bus
Go round and round, round and round.
Carry us.
Cleaners, brokers,
One ear off or, surround sound,
All yous, hark
The timetable
Perpetual, it turns found
Into lost.
He,
Breaking in two,
The other bit
Crude, dry
Scab, ready to
Drop off.
Reach rail,
Look on, Forget
The week gone
Wrong, soak
It up with
Paper sponge, the
Metro swab –
Clean dirt with
Dirt, hold it
Tight –
Jolt – shifts
The train –
Hand flesh is felt, ridges
From another
Land, fingers and
Thumb.
“What can you see?”
It says, this finger-
Feeling attached to
A voice, somewhere
Below.
“What do you mean?
I’m reading.”
“Exactly, you said it,
Not me.”
“?” says his face,
“!” says her nose –
Her mouth opens
Once more – “You are
Reading not seeing –
If you saw what you read I
Know you’d stop
Dead in your tracks.”
“You’re mad, he said.”
“No, the Metro’s for
Fools, sponges,
You might say.”
She meant no
Offence, only
To break through,
Shatter the
Void stretched
In that two
Foot space, wedged,
Stuck between
Him and herself,
Embankment and Waterloo.
(25th November)
I’m not giving up
My seat for anyone
Here on the train-
Head pounding
Soft on the brain,
Hard against skull.
Things swell up in
My chest, aches
And emotions, fears
And requests, no,
No regrets but
An after taste
As if I’d eaten
What I shouldn’t
But I haven’t-
Just worked through
The day and
Waited, wasting time,
For a new surge
Of energy, but
None arrives, only
More and more
Time to fill with
Weak hands
From an empty
Bucket
[6th October]
Taken round a
Cyber cell large
Enough to house
A hundred people,
The office. Hell? No,
Nice people, coffee machine,
No pressure, just
Sit and tinker, tinker,
Away and watch
Life linger, there
In a new tab.
[Written 14th MAy 2009]
How to behave
With men?
Men you work with.
Do you work with
Them or for them?
Senior men,
Take note!
Juniors are not
Less
Than you
Only
Less
Than themselves if
That is how
You treat them.
Let them be
You and they
Will be better
Than you or
They thought possible.
Why? Because without
A lane to call their own,
Sprinters collide and fall.
Being Every Day 