(20 minute poetry)

Back again on the underground,
threatening rain topside,

In this,
shall we say submarine,
I dream of delights
gems that sparkle in
otherwise dreary nights.

I know where I am
and
where I've been
but below ground
I can dream.

It's a bit like being dead and
without the bother of a price
on my head.

I have seen pearls born of oysters,
prayed and foisted myself onto the silver crucifix to fix
some part of me,
walked through the abbey to find holiness and in the
monastery of man found only emptiness.

I'm still here on the Central,
just fazed out for a while and
now tuning in because I'll soon
be in
Stratford.

But there are colours in here
auras I guess,
so many memories
that I could undress are
impressed upon this cylinder.

if it's a dream and I'm never sure that it is.
if in the gems that delight
that furnish me with more dreams tonight,
it's
always if isn't it?