Parts 1 + 2

Hopefully i'll get a good seat
-a window seat
Hopefully i'll miss the rush hour
dodge the sleet
of my mind.
Somehow escape
With a daydream into peoples back yards.
The border of the British rail.
I see the plastic slides
and all that it entails
to maintain bouncy castles
In outer space.
Their only place
The garden.

The families begin to rust
Like the carriage lamps
And the sagging busts of sandstone
Drenched
The castles quenched the desire
For the fortress
And quagmire that becomes
The estate.

Lucky I escaped on this train then.

The flashing faces are freeze frames
The pointed fingers
Of the lame
blame each other
as the domestic row
Is obvious to me for those few seconds.
They are in my line of sight
My visibility is splayed
And the milk tray, tacky and melting
is Laid out
in a living room, halogen downright lit
By a man in a black jump suit
athletic git, jumping
Ah…
He is only a shadow-
I was mistaken for a second-
The carriage lamps had flickered.

I’m disappointed, pen tip thumping my brow,

I have seen water features
Flash by
-Inspired by the cleavage of Charlie Dimmock.
I have seen semi naked
Flesh
And the exuberant eye
Of a divorcee
Presumably

How dare I!
assumtion! , ha! -
the ass of you and me
who the bugger do I think I am
sat here.

but I love it
the peeping
I loved to perv into her stocking clad
Windows
revell in a strangers underwear strewn
And her red lit room
Invited me
For a few seconds . . .
I thought I may be in the dam rack
Until a nudging  mum pram basket
Flat pack knocked my knee jerk reaction
Back to dodge her shopping tack flack
And get out of the way.

Bet she’s a single mum
the shell suit says it all

Dreadful of me.
You idiot I call myself
who the bugger am I.

Such assumptions
In a fantasy world
I create a stage
And hurl the characters upon it
I watch Nike clad morons
Bang bin lids
As though they are apes
With sticks of bones
As though they are out to become
The overthrown elite
Of society
And who can blame them
In this ludicrous place
Of overblown phones
Oozing technology
The spotted clones of hoods
And arrogant teen thuds of defiant feet
they find a seat, close to me
in the carriage.

Yes, I know you have arrived, no need to make a noise.

They want to be somebody
Just like me
Clambering
Gasping
But somehow still alive
The song goes
And I attribute
The thrown hands
As drowning
As I sat all comfortable
In standard class
Through scratched Perspex
That should be glass
And dignity dictates
the reluctance to scratch my
derriere in public
so instead I tolerate and
do the stiff upper lip bit
for my kind and
gyrate slightly in the hope to satisfy
all the while it rushes by
the outside, oblivious

do you really think they would give a damn
about an itch on my ass?
Who the bugger am I?

I see
the microsecond arguments like Polaroid’s
they fade from nothing
I see
the cracking cement
of a crazy paving path unitended
I see
the new born and the bent
the baby bouncers
and the loafers lent
and the sofas rent to CSL lounge suits incorporated
unlimited credit problem inherited
the adolescent cubicles, hutch and a bunk
for the social defunct - I blame the parents
for the whole stinking mess
for allowing
50 cent wallpaper
made of fools gold guest
innovated, lest QVC.

in 100 years time
I’m told it will all be a bad idea
like the road in the sky
or the high rise streaking tear
of imprisonment
life
and the backyard estate
life and the elevated mistakes

I watch it all
this is not a ghost train
this is British Rails ride through suburbia
this is me thinking i'm further
from it
than I really am.

Pathetic am I