Itching

Breath, it is seriously quiet on this train.

Look, that girl and her guy are energy-high on caffeine cans

but no way will they talk,

the bloke with no head on me left arm has zoned to replay

on a three-inch screen,

the emaciate sylph with feet under mine is flicking face pics,

there’s even two books.

 

Noise? C’mon, cough someone.

Spar above the ear-pip tunnels, sing the bogie drone,

babble through the suck of bridges.

Annoy me, pierce me, pull me ears and rip me jacket

with your mechanical teeth.

I love that London. I miss that London.

Where are you now, Friday night?