Journey Home

"Can you move down please?"
Crammed in like sheep on their final journey. The heat dripping.
The fat man pushed his way into the doorway, huge sweat patches staining his light blue shirt, hair stuck to his forehead, droplets running down his obese face and falling like raindrops from his chin. We moved as far in as possible, bodies squashed against each other, the shared heat and stench of a days work in airless offices burning in my nostrils. I felt sick. The fat mans arm reached towards the handrail, his big hand outstretched and his shoulder dangerously close to my face. I try and turn away, try to find some small tiny pocket of space, wanting to look at the floor, or towards the darkness of the window, but there is no room.

The chirp of the doors sounded and they closed, catching suit jackets and bags. People are still trying to board, holding the doors open while they pull themselves inside, rucksacks and briefcases become implments to make space, to nudge with increasing force against those who tried to take more than they deserved. The frustration was boiling over, in everyone. Do they never realise? Can't they see that it will take longer and longer?
"Come on", shouted someone from deep inside the carriage. I couldn't even see where the shout came from, obscured from sight by the mass of commuters, tourists and families.
Finally the doors slammed shut, and we shuddered forward, fits and starts, slowly gaining pace and disappearing into the blackness of the tunnels. Only four stops. Four stops in this heat, unbearable. I should have walked, but the streets in the early evening are almost as torrid as the tunnels, thousands of people milling around, walking too slowly, stopping for no reason, bumping, bashing. To hot, never enough shade, no air. There is never enough air in London.

We arrive at Chancery Lane. No one ever gets off at Chancery Lane. As we pull in I can see the people waiting on the platform, two or three deep. All with the same faces as us inside. Anger. There is no room. The train stops and the fat man wobbles forward, his sweat covered arm inches from my face. I push backwards, desperate to avoid the touch, to increase the meagre distance. The doors slide open and for a moment everyone gasps for a breath of the air from outside the carriage. Just a little bit cooler, just a slight breeze, just some more space. I wish some people would get off, that there wouldn't be people waiting to get on. I wish I had walked. I wish that dirty fat cunt would get the fuck out of my face. Seething. The sheep look around, to see who would get off, where a small niche of space might appear. Would someone with a seat get off, how about by the doorway, or the window, the only places where a little bit of polluted tunnel air can creep in. The best places in the carriage. But no one gets off at Chancery Lane.
"Move right down inside the cars" the announcer belts into his radio.
Move right down? He must say it for every tube that passes, so many times a day, so many times a week, a year. How many times will he have said those words, the words almost as famous as "Mind the gap". But when can you move down? There is no space. We all silently beg for the tube to get going. Get fucking moving. Please.

The doors close first time and the whine of the motors builds as we gather speed, rushing past all the unfortunate, or fortunate lifers standing on the platform, toes across the yellow line, trying to casually read papers, pushing for the spots where the doors open. The ones who know. The darkness consumes again and the rattle and screech of ancient steel as we bumble onwards, rails throwing sparks that reflect in the windows which are as black mirrors. Only three more stops. Six more minutes. St Pauls is another waste of time, same as Chancery Lane, no one gets off. Every one is waiting for Bank, there is always movement at Bank, getting off, getting on, the possibility of a better spot, a better handrail, one that perhaps does not feel as greasy with the sweat and grime of hundreds of tunnel travellers.

While you Sleep

In the morning haze
beams light your soft shine
they fill you with warmth
and colour your aura azure

Your steady sleeping breath
touches my ear, the rhythmic
rise and fall give me peace
Eyelids closed, calm, kind.

My fingertips glide upon
Your exposed thigh, wrapped
across the thick feather duvet
Golden light stirs like ripples.

Tempted to wake you from slumber
I restrain, allow my eyes to
Absorb your slumbering stillness
A picture etched forever.

I breathe your breath, join
Your motion. Sense your world
Immerse myself in the current.
Control seeps away.

Soft voices from far away
Echo in thought, joined memory
Laughter, eyes shining.
Sun on our skin.

You wake, I open my eyes
A kiss from your lips on my
Forehead. A glow of love.
Outside the sky is blue.

Winter

The darkness closes in
like the rising of the tide
Bringing with it a deparate cold chill

With a wind of ice needles
Stabbing relentlessly. Stealing
Breath and will.

It burns my skin, my eyes, my being
I scream. Lungs ripped by the melancholy
Freeze until voice is soundless.

trying to hide beneath facades, ballroom
masks of elegance. The raw texture of
my flesh remains exposed.

I yearn, call on bended knee. A prayer
Unanswered. Abandoned. Devoid
Of all that was once abundant.

So little strength. So little more.
Beckoning the onset of future unknown
To guide me towards the common goal.

Hand becomes fist, muscles tensed to
strike out, to inflict and relish.
Taste the blood on my lips.

Whirlwind of punished energy
Throws me out, spits far.
Soul cracked, chipped, a yard sale china plate.

Untitled

In the dark the hum of morning stirs
The chill air settled crisp upon the grass
Inside all is silent, close, calm.
Eyes still red with night awake in
The blackness again and again.
Thoughts freely miander
Across plains of sleep and consiousness
Firing in sporadic motion like a
Shoal of fish.

Engines purr below, work to be done
as sleepy drivers hold near their Tims.
Up here the world still rests. Missing their
Company. Scribbled thoughts a happy
Substitute. Bringing closer the warmth
Of body and comfort of breath.
Dreams of lighter days, days of sun that
seem long gone.

I am the Leaves

i am the leaves
i am the wind that blows between them
and carries them to the ground
i am the lush grass that they fall upon.
i am the earth that lies beneath and
the water that nourishes it
i am outside and inside
i am above and below
i breathe, absorb and exhale
my air belonging to all
i am a beacon, a fire that leaps
i am everything and nothing in the same moment
i speak without words and hear without hearing
i see with eyes closed
i give and accept.
i create. i love. i live

View from the Roof

Sun coloured chill as the wind whips the air
I stand facing west and smoke without care.
The burnished bronze of sunsets share
Entices me further, to go beyond there.

Ash drops to the ground and dissolves into dust
I ponder upon an image of trust
The choice is mine, to do what I must
And play the game, stick, twist or bust.

The orb disappears under the earth
Completing its cycle of day, night rebirth
I stand a while longer, a smile curled in mirth
as I contemplate all, and what its all worth.

Daydreams of beauty and hope by my side
A journey onwards taken at stride
Hands interlinked, and on for the ride
Across distant lands, rivers and tide.

I finish the butt, crush the ember that dies
Step back inside and close my eyes
Allow sleep to come and welcome its ties
And dream to wake with tranquil sunrise.

Coffee

Sheepishly he looked over and again she appeared to be looking right at him. Or perhaps looking through him. Again he had to avert his eyes. The look was too strong for him and he looked at his feet. He was unsure what the look meant, it was impossible to distinguish any emotion from it. Another quick look up. Yes, she was still looking. With each second he was becoming more self conscious. What was wrong? Was there something about his appearance, something about the way he was skulking in the corner. He wasn't sure. He looked over to her, but this time she was chatting with the person next to her. He felt a little better, or was it worse. Unable to determine the meaning of the look and now denied the possibility of more. He put it to one side, and allowed his focus to return to his book. He read a few lines but they did not absorb, his concentration drifting back to the look, to the eyes, to interpretations and possibilities. He closed the book in frustration. Now the curiosity burned. He looked over at her again, still chatting to her friend. He watched her flick her hair with a laugh and turn towards the friend, reaching out to touch her knee.

Was she interested in him, unlikely. He certainly wasn't what he considered to be an attractive person. So what was it then? He thought about going to the bathroom, to check his appearance and make sure there wasn't a stain, or smudge on his clothes, or breakfast crumbs in the corners of his mouth. Maybe his eyes looked bad, or his hair dishevelled. He couldn't stand though, it would make it obvious. Stay cool he thought to himself. Stay cool and approach her, talk to her. An internal struggle began. A fear to move, a fear to approach but a desire to know, a desire to have the opportunity to speak to her. He imagined that she looked over at him again, perhaps looking somewhere else. He rose to his feet, putting the book on the table, and went to the bar.

"Can I have another coffee please?" he asked
"Sure thing honey" replied the lady.

While he was waiting, he turned to look across at the table where she was sitting. This time there was no doubt, yes she was looking at him. Suddenly self conscious again he turned back to wait for his coffee. The lady put it down in front of him, and he took the hot mug with care and walked back to his table. His eyes concentrated on the cup to make sure he did not spill. Once back at the table, he sat down, and then took another look across the cafe. Her friend was leaving, putting on her scarf and coat. They hugged and then the friend walked between the tables, passing him and then on to the door. He heard the chimes on the door ring as the door was opened, and then again as it slowly closed. The cafe suddenly seemed to go silent, so silent that he could hear the thud of his heart inside his chest. He picked his book back up and opened it, not even remembering which page he was on he filed through the pages looking for something familiar. Anything to distract him from how awkward he felt. Page 98, half way down. He started reading again, slowly relaxing as he became involved with the imaginary world of the novel. His coffee started to cool and without looking up he felt for the mug and once grasping it, took it to his lips and gulped it down. He put the mug back on the table, and then looked over at the girl. She had a book in her hand, but was looking at him. The same eyes, messageless, without an indication of emotion. She was beautiful, natural and for some reason there was a ripple of warmth. He smiled, unconciously. A slight nod of her head towards him. A smile. The eyes seemed to sparkle with it and in a moment he was transfixed. Held by the light within them. The look between them passed and the humdrum echo of clientele returned to his ears. She returned to her book, he returned to his. He felt warm, felt noticed. An affirmation of existence in the mind of another.