Such life bustles in the station,
each individual a pinnacle of civilisation,
the voice from the heavens
desperately wants to be real,
crying out for attention,
cutting you a break with information
hoping someone will take heed
and hold onto their belongings.
When I sat next to that girl
of familiar resemblance,
I expected an incidental conversation
yet she never turned to look,
catch my eyes when I emerged from the book,
I wasn't pretending to read,
imagining the worst situation
so weave an explanation.
She got up and left,
and I wondered whether I should call
say: "Excuse my impolititude
but, dear, I forget your name
as your grace remains
I cannot fathom an entrance
to engage in faux unpredicted
I dreamt of delightful dialogue,
but watching you walk,
the coat emphasising your pale legs,
I beg for the opportunity again
yet I forget your name, friend.
These unpoeticisms, garbled
mind leaping through avenues,
the pen is a bystander
tapping its foot,
as an unclean man,
intoxicates the carriage with frowns,
the world is polluted by idiots, she said,
and I agree.
Dare I question my part?
Participating in the flushing down the draining
with the sleek, brown water,
dismissing the sunlight as fragile
and blue skies a burden of expectation.
Who is the flower?
White, middle-class, British male
seeks life-fulfilling moments
direct as the dawn, distinctive,
this luck won't go away like modern pronunciations,
if it shatters then let the world fall,
offering a true life
struggles to sit
with those who service themselves.
The planets must see us as dishonest,
swimming through space,
what other place is there for us to embrace?
What life stirs in the carriage,
gawping into the palm world,
making knots in numbers
creating blunders, hunching,
sense of none
the honest human
gets off at his stop.