this station smells of piss,
yet i am attracted to its decay and neglect.
This same station where someone was murdered,
one minute thinking of a long hot bath,
soon i am on the carriage of gloom,
sitting on sick stained sits,
drowning my sorrows,
trying to arouse the poet within.
on the other side of the window,
darkness has swallowed all images,
only a few lights remain,
from the high rise flats.
behind the windows and curtains,
lives are bieng lived,
impatient husbands hovering around the kitchen,
Exhausted eyes, magnatised to the t.v,
purring private cats,
needy nosiy dogs
soon the lights are replaced,
and i ahve arrived,
2 by 2 the elephants and giraffes,
the lions and the donkeys
beside me a man holds a beer,
wrapped in a brown paper bag,
and i half expect to see,
the trash can lady
pushing her trolley,
dodging police cars,
and cursing through her brown teeth.
Every night i do this,
and every night its differernt,
does'nt save me from sadness.
the only time,
i feel accepted, is in the special house,
where i work,
on the streets and places where sane people live,
i feel alienated,
at parties at pubs,
there dialouge drills away at my skull.
madness has a unique way of expressing itself,
i find listening to a man talking about,
slippers with souls,
and spotted, hairy seagullls,
more real to life,
than weekly shopping trips,
and leaking radiators,
if i could put this man,
who speaks so beautifully,
in my pocket i would,
and take him out when
the DVD, T.V C.D and MP3
have drained me.
with my journey nearing it end,
standing on the street,
the cars travel down the road,
like sweets on a factory conveyour belt.
i suddenly realise where i want to be,
with those that speak,