I'm not saying but whenever trains pass each other
    shoulder to shoulder
I press my face to the dirty glass without touching
    and think how pretty
The lights are so pretty to be lights whooshing by
    and the next immediate
Thought is what would it be to be in front of instead
    of next to I wonder idly
Trying to keep from getting headrush and wonky eyes
    I soft focus soft focus
On the train speeding through me and on the thoughts
    in my mind soften
Everything with the tiny selfcare that’s somewhere
    behind the LSD mouth
Cravings and the skin carvings and the face melting and
    the smoke longing
Because I can still see I can still see I can still see
    how pretty you look in your
Bloodied dress when you’re a person under the train making
    the rest of us
Late for lives of babies and spreadsheets I kiss your
    depression clean
And my mouth waters and my face slaps my hand and
    begs me shut up


Ani Smith said...

Attention-seeker! You disgust me. Everyone can see through you, you know. Lightweight.

An Unreliable Witness said...

Those 'jumpers' are so inconsiderate, I said to myself as I teetered on the edge of the platform. (Joke. Ish.)

Wonderful poem. I detect some of the rhythm of the train in there ...

(Please note that I am not mentioning clotted cream)

Roberta said...

As I was walking home earlier these Sophie Hannah lines popped into my mind:

'I stand back as the Skipton train advances / Having to choose too fast / Between the pride and sympathetic glances of my supporting cast. '

Not in a suicidal kind of way.

True story.

ty bluesmith said...

1. Roberta is smarter than me.

2. I am your spreadsheet.

3. I forget who wrote this poem but I am you spreadsheet anyway.

ex tee ex said...

loved it

An Unreliable Witness said...

(I think being a spreadsheet is an excel-lent thing to be)


(I'm here all week)

(I think I am going to go back to appreciating Ani's lovely poem now)

Roberta said...

p.s. ani? really pretty poem.

Ani Smith said...

Sorry, but it was getting to be too much damn fun around here. What with all that clotted cream.

An Unreliable Witness said...

Yes, I agree.

So does this mean I can post my sixteen stanza epic poem about squirrel genocide in 19th century Mongolia now? Please?

ex tee ex said...



(this is the part where you beg me.... ahem...)

Robb Todd said...

Nice ... real nice