The Ginger Line

220px-London_Overground_Train_Interior

Dedicated to the memory of Steven Hawking, RIP.

 

The Ginger Line

 

Destination: Canada Water.

The next station is Surrey Quays.

Doors will open on the right-hand side.

Exit here for Goldsmith’s College.

 

Everyday caught

In the labyrinth of mind,

Where dreams,

Desires

And lust,

Collude.

 

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:

– 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 no less,

 

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: the journey to the exit.

The hollow Overground train pulls!

And from floor to ceiling,

Between the orange pins,

A cacophony of continuous limbs,

      Seated hips,

      Angled legs,

      Dangling feet,

The heads,

Turn, ghostlike,

In fractals, inside out,

Forever somewhere; everywhere nowhere.

 

From  STOP to STOP,

In labyrinthine networks,

In tubes,

Brushed viscose,

Lit and digital and LCD,

Overhead promises:

 

Like these,

A hundred escalating messages,

Each more insistent than the last,

All compelling enough to distract,

With that man-on-man desire to enslave the 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

 

Why? WHY?

Has the bacterial sludge,

Built these edifices of glass and steel.

The labyrinthian cage,

Whose walls race upward at the speed of light,

While the inner commuter flame gutters,

As overhead,

In galaxies all around, everywhere,

Supernovas explode in showers.

So that, for a moment, the Overground glows chromatic.

 

New Cross Gate, Southwark, Canada Water.

        

       ALL CHANGE, PLEASE.

       THIS TRAIN TERMINATES HERE.

 

A few automated steps and

Southwark,

Green Park,

Baker Street,

And Swiss Cottage,

Briefly appear,

Fade and disappear:

And here walking down Belsize Road,

The evening of the

Super Gibbous Moon,

Rising blood orange,

In Ziggurat dimensions,

Over The Alexandra Road Estate:

As a slinking silhouette,

Homeward bound makes, I.

For there

On the event horizon of knowing …

Surely given, and taken,

A few more bends.

 

It’s time, again. One more time …

 

           You love me, right?

YOU LOVE ME, 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.

Death’s star-like eye,

Embrace, pass through,

(Fear not),

On, through the labyrinth bound northward,

For herein,

We return, entering and exiting,

Here and elsewhere,

Heavenward.

 

Stars, I LIED!

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,

DIE CONSUMER, DIE!

BE

MATERIAL FREE.

 

Last stop:

 

      No-name, this one:

 

BE:

 

    SU-PER-NA-TU-RAL.

 

SAY IT:

 

    SU-PER-NA-TU-RAL.

 

 

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All Set For Take-Off.

High on the O2:
Red Rossopomodoro, Wagamama,
and on the bus shelter, Marc Jacobs,
and again higher,
Habitat,
then Metroline moves past.
It’s the 113
to Oxford Circus,
and the 13 to Victoria:
Thrilla Lives On,
the slogan shouts,
while National Express has
All Set For Take-Off.

They’re gone…
It calms, empties,
nothing much
just the red lidless eyes,
of cars
two, three, four dozen
pairs
hover over the asphalt road.

Where…
where am I?
Ahhh, yeah,
in the Oriental Star,
the road seen from a table and stool,
waiting
for food.
Where have I hailed from?
My lover’s womb.
No, no
*NOT THAT!*
The North Star, yes:
A pub on the Finchley Road,
Where Tottenham beat Liverpool 4-1
A pyrrhic victory!
Over a couple of beers.

Warm years, and tears.
A sense of place,
a home, a nest,
Receding in the traffic
Of a busy road,
Waiting on noodles.

Hornsey Blossom

In Hornsey, N8
under a cable post
sitting
the smart soles of a lady in black
slap past.
‘That’s fuckin’ stupid,’
she intones to her phone noisily
with
‘Why wouldja do that?’
Annoying woman
think I.Whoa!
Hang on!
Hit pause!
Let her Be!I scold
ticking myself off.
From across the street
an exquisite pink blossom
releases herself from a cherry tree
gliding
closer and closer.

Quinn’s

In pubs with bar flies.
Kronenburg, Becks, Carling, Stella Artois and Fosters,
Dancing in our blood,
Utterly inured; we are endured by all:
The solipsism most profound.

And when Johnnie, Jack and Jameson join,
The sentimental and the morbid
Are conjoined.

And damn!
In the custody of beer halls,
The shadows that draw, fade,
And calls – e’en Death’s! — are put on hold,
No time; instead, before the last, another pint.

For in this hallowed inn,
Drinking what’s in the glass,
And espousing the glow within,
Cares regress.

No woes,
Or loaded psyches,
For when the pressure builds,
The best: a jet of yellow bliss,
Relieves the pain,
On Armitage Shanks’ porcelain.

 

 

Quinn's