On the Underground

I got into a depressive mood in the underground today which passed very quickly leaving me regretful and ashamed that I could have felt so loathing of it.

Sometimes I hate it here

The dull pounding of the heart of a clogged and sick city

The stagnant breath of cankerous lungs

The alien voices that call the exchange

Of People

People; cells and tissues

Moving on mechanically

 

Here I am, a hypocrite

For all the world the sort

Who would see some story behind

Every pair of tired eyes

Every love-sick, separate heart

Every carriage moving on

Moving cattle

Moving money

 

Moving in a circe

That never ends

But is only delayed

 

I see the hopeful newcomers

And the cynical converts

And the unamalgamated aliens

All mix and form some separate other

Something that is unholy

As the Empire that was

Spat, and the Empire that isn't

S***s it's excrement down the plughole

Of London.

 

As the dirty

Thames-water air

Reeks and warms

My face, improper

Sneering s***s, provocative

Are slung out between

Bankers and Coppers

 

But oh, how you suck me in

Unprompted

When the undead city

Becomes a coffin

When refuge is offered

You give me sanctuary

And after all,

I'm just waiting for my train.

Reviews

[Freder Fredersen (aka G..]

Great piece. Powers of perception really kick in a the bus stop sometime. This was a fantastically dark portrait of the human condition. Made me sad....but also made me feel a flicker of a smile because of the tone you used. It was the exact tone of a downward moodswing....almost shocked that you're seeing life this way. Great write!

Cheers!
FF

[Analgesia]

Excelent use, of course, of bringing us in with the metaphor comparing London to a dieing body, excellent use of shock to draw the reader. Good self examination also: the admition that you also fall into this homogonous mass, that you, just as many others do, are finding a deeper meaning in these people at the metro station. Every writer, so far as I'm concerned, must admit to themselves that they are in some way un-original, for there have been so many before us. So personally that particular part rings true for me. This 'cankerous' city also comforts you: this contradiction lends itself to the overall tone of the poem. Do we not all find some solace in our own thoughts, examining the world around us. If not I am inclined to say it is one of the greatest traits of a poet. You also flow well and keep a conversational tone the whole way: you and the city discussing your love hate realationship, a one sided conversation reardless. Well writen, I hope I was of service.