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.