EUSTON STATION

Arriving in a smoothness and warmth.
Leaning here against 
this stone grey pillar
Stone grey floor and 
blackened stoned grey building
Upwardly seeing only a soft blue sky
Basking myself 
in the warmth of sunbeams

Silently a softly chugging monster
Eases itself 
with imperceptible sighs and groans
Into its situation 
for my embarkation.
And so, embarking,
through a pane of glass I spy
A blackened soul a-portering.
From long lost sunshine shores,
Stretched out and sighing 
on a platform seat
In nowhere land.

We are the loners,
We are the longlast ligging looners,
We are the make it I'll be soonest
We are the shake it and be tunist
We are the do it if it exist
We are the, we are the,
we are, the ligging Looooooners

One shrill cry
And I seated floated fly
Atop drum wheels that 
fight for patterns 'mid the noise
And flow on rail directionals.
The sun sinks low 
behind bad-shapers in the sky
And now with angry roar 
we really fly,
And monster's screaming 
out his high from speed
And I must flow along 
in optimism for my need.

This carriage is 'No smoking. 
Penalty Ten pounds'.

(I remember when you could 
score half an ounce for that!)

A field of caravans
A field of yellow vans
And a black horse
Of course.
Just things passing by
But each one moments of sheer joy.

This queue is one of pure intent,
for alcohol, no more, no less.
Each one of you, or four
(Depending on how good a night it was)
Will drink to that, I'm sure!

And so, I sit here, respectable like,
Hell bent for a black pool,
An' just because me dress 
almost shows me bum
Don't think I'll be taking 
any of yer 'You know what'!
An' anyway, if yer look twice
Yer can tell I'm a nice girl really,
And if you look really close
You might even think I'm a poet
With me sittin' here writin' like
Aw, who gives a damn,
Don't lay yer bloody hang-ups on me,
I've got enough of me own
And a few to give away,
If you've got room on your wall 
for another hang-up.

Dots on a green hill, sheep-like.
Boxes on a sheet of water, boat-type.
Watford-services-gap-
Hoover-National-go-camping
are passing words 
that string along strabismally.
A black pool, why not a blue pool,
I sigh optimistically.
At least they got some rock
But you eat it,
Not 'ear it, so they say.

A reflection of the setting sun
Runs along my window hurriedly.
I have a sun on either side,
How can life better be?
Now left sun disappeared
While right one floats away
To join another dawn and reappear.

Past slurgy ponds
As yet unlit by setting suns
Killers sit round 
catching what they can.
They wait and kill
Until their time will come.

Wires without confusion intertwine,
They rise and fall 
like ballet dancers making mime,
Their stage a lightly greying sky,
The light-show later, 
called 'The Firmament',
With guesting stars 
to make it an event.

Now I a crumpled heap of semi-sleep,
The sun, a rosy ball 
just flitted by again and died,
Another day just put aside.

The train stops.
The window on my left is crying.