Underworld

Getting up and Getting old – Metropolitan Line graffiti.


The morning ferry drifters. Drifting atoms
Through sweat-grafted tunnels – crust,
Dust, molecular particles of below air.

Stretched silence grating on matchbox
Stubble. Stillness to shudder in the monotonous
Jogs and bumps of axles and metals on jostling track.

Unsteady flicker-lighting shows black and white
Film behind x-ray eyes, fidgeting… unravelling in rolls of
Stills: decomposing thoughts, something stale and fraying.

Some eyes are rust-shut in sleep, perchance they should dream.
Dream: that forgotten state of innocence, of unsnibbed,
Unclasped freedom; of fertile grass and imaginings

Upon that mattress of springy greenness; and the scent of damp
Earth, and thoughts bred of timeless hours: oozes of tangerine juice,
And youth, and lips…. A spluttered hiss cuts across the

Commute, but soon the lazy, etched foreheads roll and pivot from neck hinges once more,
Slaves to the blustery mechanics. Some taughtened sinews seem to
Fight the buffet of steel on wheel on suspension, and the lure of

Suspended reality – straining not to succumb to the hypnotic rhythm of the
Underworld River, where oars cast ripples into cave-echo, and rock and
Haul and drag souls further up and deeper in to the resonance of darkness.