Eat, Sleep, Work, Repeat

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

“43 to, Friern Barnet”

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.

Wake up from the daily grind

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.

Commuters, Northern Line, London 6:32 to 6:37 p.m



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


“What can you see?”

It says, this finger-

Feeling attached to

A voice, somewhere


“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)

Heavy Day

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



[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]

Men on top

How to behave

With men?

Men you work with.

Do you work with

Them or for them?

Senior men,

Take note!

Juniors are not


Than you



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.