Internal Travelogue. (New Ending).

The planned engineering work on my mouth
will enable me to eat
grilled cheese sandwiches,
and perhaps
give me the confidence to kiss
your downcast eyes,
your black nailed fingers,
the red warning tapes
that are your lips.

Meantime the Circle Line rattles through the depths
that sinew London
with the taut griefs of anxious travellers
commuting to and fro.
I dream of Hades,
the darkness of Roman catacombs,
barricaded North Sea coal mines
poisoned by gas.
These visions flare on and off in my mind
like emergency lights passed speedily in the tunnel,
or grainy clips from half remembered films.

I fidget my analog wrist watch aimlessly,
and resist real contact with my fellow passengers
while staccato warning bells
start to clamour in my brain.
TOWER HILL NEXT STOP
repeated by an unseen actress
makes me think of Traitors Gate,
the photo of a stabbed child that made me vomit,
Sir Walter Raleigh waiting for the chop.
The hound now squatting by the sliding doors
exhales a smelly yawn,
then fixes me with a dope fiend`s look.

THE TRAIN TERMINATES HERE -
STAND CLEAR OF THE CLOSING DOORS.
The journey to see you is always a squalid chore,
an apparent loop line slowly going nowhere
as though I had travelled in and out of a madhouse
made from buckled glass.
Meanwhile that girl with an acrobat`s muscular thighs
has completely burnt out my eyes.


Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
October 13th. - 14th. 2012. - September 11th. - 12th. - 16th. - 17th. 2015.
October 18th. 2016. 

This is my vision of the Inferno. City life is Hell, but too interesting to let go of.