Everyday caught
In the labyrinth of mind,
I am,
Where dreams,
And desires
And lust,
From nothing
Conspire something.

Destination: Canada Water.
The next station is Surrey Quays.
Doors will open on the right-hand side.
Exit here for Goldsmith's College.

In the cerebellum
Fragments flash cerebrum bright:
Wheels in tunnels burn,
A neural screech amplified deep,
As waves of electrons churn,
And in multiple places keep.

This stop:
- My birth -
Is in Westminster!

It’s time:

Do you love me?
DO YOU LOVE ME?
          Yes, No, Ohhh (the audience).

In the space-time continuum,
The labyrinth is forever,
Within a fourth dimension.

It’s time …

You love me, right?
YOU LOVE ME, RIGHT?
    Yes, No, Ohhh (the audience).

DO-MI-NA-TION
DEATH FREE
DO-MI-NA-TION
ASH FREE

Lost in the labyrinth: a journey to an exit.
The Overground train pulls!
And from floor to ceiling,
Between vertical orange pins,
A medley of languid listless limbs lulls,
       Seated hips,
       Angled legs,
       Dangling feet,
And neck-less heads,
Lost, ghoul-like,
The disconcerted move doggedly on,
Everywhere somewhere; but forever nowhere
Through London's hills and bogs.

From  STOP to STOP,
In the labyrinthine network,
In tubes splayed out on cubes,
Of bright brushed viscose comfort,
Overhead, the ads exhort:

       Top Up Your Soul,
       Fast Forward Your Escape
And
       uSwipe
       uSwitch
       uSave

Like these,
A hundred escalating messages,
Each more insistent than the last,
Compel, enough to distract,
So man’s desire enslaves his heart.

Its time…

         You love, right?
YOU LOVE, RIGHT?
    Yes, No, Ohhh (the audience).

DO-MI-NA-TION
DEATH FREE
DO-MI-NA-TION
ASH FREE

How? Why?
Has bacterial sludge,
Built these edifices of glass and steel.
This labyrinthian cage,
Whose walls race up at the speed of light,
While the inner commuter flame gutters,
Everywher, in multiverses,
Supernovas explode in showers.
And for a moment, in the moment, The Overground chromatic glows.

New Cross Gate, Canada Water, Southwark.

Lit and digital and LCD:
        
  ALL CHANGE, PLEASE.
  THIS TRAIN TERMINATES HERE

A few automated steps, and:
       Southwark,
       Green Park,
       Then Baker Street,
Appear, fade and disappear.

Now walking down Belsize Road,
On the evening of the
Super Gibbous Moon,
As it rises high over the Ziggurat dimensions of the Alexandra Estate,
And all is blood orange at dusk,
As I, a slinking silhouette,
Make for the event horizon of home,
For surely given, and taken,
A few more bends, another turn,

It’s time, again.

         Love, right?
         LOVE, RIGHT?
    Yes, No, Ohhh (the audience).

DO-MI-NA-TION
DEATH FREE
DO-MI-NA-TION
FREE ME.

To the event horizon of consciousness,
To that black hole at the core.
In death's star-like eye,
Embrace, pass through,
(Fear not),
On, through the labyrinth northward,
Entering and exiting,
We go awhile, a little longer.

Stars, my Stars,
Again, it's time.

You love me, right?
YOU LOVE ME, RIGHT?
Yes, No, Ohhh (the audience).

SU-PER-NA-TU-RAL
SU-PER-NA-TU-RAL
DEATH FREE.
LOVE!
BE,
WINGS FREE:

     SU-PER-NA-TU-RAL

One more stop:

       New Bond Street.

GET BEYOND
DESIRE,
BEYOND THE LABYRINTHEAN LIE,
CONSUMER, DIE!
BE
MATERIAL FREE.

Last stop:

       No-name, this one:

BE:

     SU-PER-NA-TU-RAL.

SAY IT:

     SU-PER-NA-TU-RAL
     SU-PER-NA-TU-RAL
     DEATH FREE.
     LOVE!
     BE,
     WINGS FREE:
    
     WE ARE:
     SU-PER-NA-TU-RAL

Saturation deforestation
slash and burn
turn green into brown
tear the lot down,

when there isn't a tree
perhaps we can see
the wood,

it's a joke,
but I agree
it's not good.

Tax.

maybe we
could have an M.O.T.
on every tree
if that's the only way we'll value them

leave it to the ministry men.

overground ticket office closures -  30.09.18

welcome to draconian
just like poetry and criticism
jump barrier at the road caledonian
no staff on shop floor or camera crew doing voyeurism.
don't be fooled
cuts will travel benefit
vigilantes are getting up tooled
taking full advantage of deficit.
beggars and scammers are like cadbury
they are a good receiver
going to waterloo to direct to canonbury
poetry not going well with arriva.
51 stations are to be closed
not going to dent or groove
barnsbury is next to be exposed
for benefit to no paying customers it will improve.
RMT not wanting to slash
they no ticket officers play a crucial role
begging sadiq khan is **** cash
we need a human not a machine with no sole.
welcoming to the best ever city
machines are on and automatic
back to humans queen did sing with no pity
ahead of times proves so graphic.
will share my views
travelwatch get poetry online
i will be first to break the news
ticket office closures is transportation decline.

A place in London
do no lights show
Underground the mice do flow
Everyday since long ago  
Workers ,families to and fro
Under ...Over ...Down below
Trains do rumble
Concrete hell

No hills of green
No mountain view
Just fumes and dust
A smell requel

They call this life
The under dwell
Underground
Under hell

Our capital of English darkness
can stay right there
Ill live for brightness
I love my world of trees and flowers  
Market Harborough
This eden ours

milk skin taut on bones, the colour of calcium,
                         today the milk is dotted with sun blots, but it hasn't gone off yet.
further down the milk is purple and bruised. but
                       you never want to go further.

drowning in milk skin isn't different from drowning in milk,
the blood of the cows staining your eyes.
                                                                        red in your eyes,
                                    eat out my eyes.

picket fence eye lashes;
one day we will make them stand so tall,
one day i will stand tall, so tall that you won't see me,

i will be a cloud,
                           and a bird,
                                             and a whole aeroplane.

                                                           there is a war. and it is happening underground.

if you are an overground soldier, your milk skin will drown you.
if you are deep underground, you are purple and bruised.
but for the LAST TIME, you NEVER
                                  want to go further.

dogs yelp. and it sounds like accordions.
                            but secretly it is accordions. and they are made from lions.
                                             according to the yelping dogs,
                                            of the purple underground.

i like the idea of skeletons walking around,
but not skeletons covered in muscle.
the underground well they are coated in muscle,
strapped firm to their skin,

                                                                           like suicide bombers.
              and you are a cause worth dying for;

according to the world leaders with their picket fence eye lashes,

according to the yelping dogs of the yelping darkness.

                                                                            you never want to go further.

It’s a dystopian gloom and doom saga...
Also you may notice I’m still crusading for Littlehampton to feature on the world stage.

(and btw… I do know that US presidents only get
to have two terms of office… But, like most world leaders…
we never let the truth get in the way of a good story).

You know what’s coming doncha?
It’s not the end of the world (yet) but…
slowly and, as with all evolutionary stuff,
things are changing - and I for one… Well, I’ve had enough!
But you do know what’s coming doncha?

Like a glacier melts and the oceans rise.
and the maps change shape and,
unfortunately, also each country’s size.
The scary cry goes out…
‘we’ll have to move to higher ground’.
And it ain’t just Shoreham, Worthing or LA
(that’s Littlehampton) It’s EVERY worldwide coastal town!
You know what’s coming don’tcha

Yeh!…It’s official folks - Littlehampton IS a world class coastal town!

On another but very related matter - Social media…
That’s developing apace. cyber chatter! Not face 2 face!
It helps spell the future for the whole human race.
We can chat, chew the fat and generally carry on communication.
with pretty much everyone in every first world nation.
Of course - You can see what’s coming can’tcha?

Even Boris’s next election win and Trump’s 3rd term
could be voted for on-line. Press one for a **** - 2 for a clone…
And evil dictatorial leaders can be rubbed out by drone…
Now you just might think that’s fine,
but the terrorists will lash back - (back/slash, the swine)
and come stalking down your street…
with machetes and suicide vests - real ones this time -
looking for your hatch, your subterranean retreat…
Cos we won’t be living on it but below the street!
You can see what’s coming can’tcha?

Yeh, we’ll be, underground, overground (Stop it!)
yeh… under that dryer, higher ground
and still be in be touch and on the ball so,
with food & stuff grown by hydroponics (naughty).
padded out by UBER drone delivered Just Eats.
We ARE preparing for Armageddon.
Drone warfare will also cure the need for extermination
nation on nation skirmishes… Just Sweet!
So you do know what’s coming don’tcha?

Yep… cast your mind way forward a decade or two…
There’ll be Amazon drones dropping goods for you;
the things you want  - your culinary needs
Dry Goods… rice, noodles, seeds.
Spices (for the very rich) - and freeze dried veg
and, if you are really wealthy, and for you life’s not on the edge
the city’s centralised, homogenised cooking crews
The takeaway kings… the Just Eats & the Deliveroos.
They’ll still be at it!
And you can see what’s coming can’tcha?

You might think that’s a good thing yeah,
well maybe! But, if we all start living underground…
to get away from the blizzards and the scorching wind(s).
The Summer Hot hot… The winter Not not - yeh sub zero,
that’ll be the only way to stay in touch
no more roaming… (that’ll still be extra).
Just as well because the latest proliferating virus
makes messaging just as popular as face to face or phoning.
And you do know what’s coming don’tcha?

Things are going to be SOooo... different in our not so Brave New World…
Talk about alternative. We’ll ALL be ‘Underground’…
but not because we’re ‘Hip’ or Hippy… Or even happy…
but, because above ground just ain’t where you’ll want to live.
and then… The doubters will shape up…
A toss is suddenly something they’ll rapidly give!
NOW…you DO know it’s coming don’tcha?

You’re gonna need Armour for Armageddon!

I’ve been snapped out of the void before
Endless relenting overthinking never did me any good
But with ego
I stubbornly persist

On an overground tram
Heading back from a casual birthday party
Casual by default since her mum insisted
On jack in the box games and a caterpillar cake at nineteen

I told her all about the online echo chamber
For my newfound identity
For which she held the same
Did she have these same experiences
These strangers liked to insist?

I will never forget how she so cool told me no
And like a slap in the face I was reminded
Of the futility of my own overthinking.
There didn’t need to be some grand explanation
For my cosmic being in the universe
I just had to exist

Onto the overground
above
the
underground with
so many sights I could see.

not for me on a Saturday
to be squirreled away
like a nut,
but
that idea's a sound one
not an over an underground one.

I'll be back at midnight
and at that time
whether under or
overground
it's still dark.

the overground, the
boom-boom, boom-boom,
the repetitive rhythm
of youth, of you, of
your hands between my thighs,
of yellow-golden-brown
sun stains on the wall,
of yawns interrupted by kisses.
that train lulled me to sleep,
it opened my heart and
it broke me, silently,
into a saltwater version of truth;
where am i? what am i
supposed to be doing here?
why can't i see you?
i scream into my pillow
these rhetorical tortures
until my throat is numb and
my head feels like
that train;
boom-boom. boom-boom. boom-boom.

(20 minute poetry)

Part of the underground underground
do not confuse this with the overland overground it's not quite the same,

fir trees don't grow down here in the dark,
the carriages are light enough
packed tight enough
trolleys and cases right enough
but it's different up top
there's a buzz
usually from the saw mills at three mills and not forgetting the rolling hills which are in my opinion much better than rolling stock,
better than being cooped up in a cattle truck although to be fair
cattle get more air to breathe
can you believe that?

In just sitting here and writing I see from the corner of my weak eye a young woman biting her nails
I guess if all else fails and you're a vampire,
higher, I want to say
but I don't and pay attention to the writing again.
another thing that's not quite the same

I realise that everything's copied even imagination
and that brings me into the new Stratford station
home again
home again
we all want a home again
a regular place
a loving face
to welcome us in.

Change here for the jubilee line
and I think not before time,
the docklands light on your right and
across the way why not take the
overground train today?

Fifteen ten and I'm back here again,
this is the time although it feels like the year,
there's a plague up there that plagues me
and it'll gel into medieval history
where no one will give a ***

******* it in and so why am I thin?

In the community where alterations can't trouble me
I walk with immunity among the dead
seeing eyes that once could see
lips that should kiss but never will
we
still look out on the Isis as if she
will save us from these ravages,

Winter is yet to come
and the weak shall inhabit
the sick try to grab it
the poor on the plot which
Is merely a cesspit
do a moonlight,
Shakespeare was right
it's a lot of to do
about nothing.

Its 6:01, Farringdon Platform 1
Shattered souls craned necks
And twiddling thumbs.

The fool in the know.
The first to know; the last to accept it.

Here stood reflecting.
Silently condemning a life accepted
Reams of fleeces overground and understated.
Shrouded from sheering myself.

The fool in the know.
The first to know; the last to accept it.

How my hem has freyed
No, not from loft today
Through rubbing ankles under desks,
To metamorphose
To a child cocooned blanket bound
Rubbing ankles dreaming sound
I dream as the child dreamt
As a baby longed to feel
      I long for what I have felt

burrowed in lies and tears
i've decided i still need you.
wine drunk on a monday
i beat the record for
most blinded in love.
you, with your laughs and honey
tinted eyes and pink pink lips
and your absolute destruction of my heart.

i don't even want the remains, please
bury them beneath the overground station
or scatter them in the river Thames.
or keep them, broken and all,
within the depths of your sock drawer.

expectations of epiphanies brought
a sword through my stomach,
replaced butterflies with blood;
and yet, somehow (without a heart)
i still love you.

maybe one day i'll understand
why things have to be this way
but for now my drunken mondays
will continue to leak the poison from
my eyes in an endless desire
to be yours.

Roads meet and entwine
cross and go their seeming separate ways
turn and bend go back on themselves
underground overground
come to a dead end.

Clearly clear
and yet
I can't see a
thing.

One doesn't on the underground
unless it goes overground
then it's not underground
is it?

He tripped over his feet
making it to the seat,
She
looks on in dismay
as if this is a Tuesday
and nobody wants to play
gentlemen.

If you don't want the
Emirates Air Line
or the 02
then
North Greenwich station
is not for you.

I took a day off
a pay off for all the
hard work that I've done.

Okay
Tuesday or not
I'm coming to get you
ready or not

to write but more than this ABC
to rearrange. see underneath,
to go underground, overground
to grow a stalk from a womb
woman you are the Universe
giving succour to stars and moons
not least your child a babe born
in a manger, all poor children
all put down women, all birth
all life all wronged all rights
all everything all silence, all
this ABC to communicate what
all know to be true, and truth.

London’s hot
it steams after a night of thunder
the parched ground shows signs of run off
leaves cluster amidst lime flowers
beaten to the soil by the deluge in the darkness

the people and their movement
seem slower in this airless humidity
even the conversations sound quieter
as if the storm softened their bark
as the day unfolds in the bright light
the brief freshness of last nights downpour is a dream

lunchtime in a small Italian bistro
the green of pesto as fresh and promising as springtime
outside the humidity sets the pace of afternoon
always a little awkward in the heat
London slows to a shuffle
unwilling or unable to fully accept a Mediterranean day

eastbound weekend underground train
heads overground for Liverpool Street
an air conditioned sardine can
filled to the gunnels
noises blending and contorting
to make a music as yet unfound

moving through it on a breeze,
in a daze, removed yet present
words cutting my pathway home
London is hot
it waits for another night of thunder