Every morning
I shoot through miles of tunnel
In a rattling tram
And people have forgotten how to look out of the window
At the fleeting lights
Which highlight
The graffiti
Which highlight
The primordial urge to create
Which has morphed
From the cave paintings of bison
To territorial pissings
Of equal splendour

People try to avoid eye contact
Look at their shoes
And everyone wears a shade of blue or brown
Blandly coupled with something black
But I stare at the tortured faces
Dominated by Moloch
Who is slowly branching his tendrils around my ankles
And I try to guess their stories