When the whistle blows on the overground
I want to be sat, leaned back
When the engine goes, when the engine goes.
Rolling forward, ever forward-
These steel wheels will never be my ocean,
their mechanical motion, when the engine goes,
leaned back in a quivering shell.
Boxes full of scratched, etched windows,
to look out at the same, same names
and spaces of square footed office places you don’t want to buy,
at the ominous curtains of the stultifying fog they call sky,
Floating atop concrete constructions,
the city of smoke.
Of drones, travelling the world in “zones”
A patchwork quilt of pencil skirts,
of bad taste in ties,of paperwork
A paper-mached public transport
from pin-striped linen, scarves of silk.
of metros and mails and PVA glue,
and orange splices down the side where the financial times burns through.
To hell with you.
Give me elbow room, and something to read
over a broad, square, chipped and burdened shoulder
The city’s sense of grey and gloom is left behind me,
The city stinks- of sweat, and stress,
of decaf soya syrup drinks,
of starched, pressed collars from 6am,
and I don’t like the way it thinks.
The way it rushes, spits, and stirs-
the gate took my ticket but spat back out herrs.
It stirs and crushes, divides us into zones,
gives us complicated coffees and the feeling of being alone,
and it gets less, and it gets less,
of anything like home.