The train. Ah yes, the train...
Freudian symbol of pure enigma.
Temporal housing zone of passengers.
Astute corridor of paralysis.
Anaesthesia of weekday mornings.
Purgatorial anti-chamber of labour.
Mythical cure of erectile dysfunction.
Labyrinth of logistics.
Apotheosis of virile transport.
Mausoleum on wheels.
Incubator of dreams.
Poor refuge of workers.
Mobile art-gallery of a post-Kantian world.
Bookless library in the present.
Seated within the mobile corridor,
Extended by thirteen carriages bearing
Approximately sixty odd passengers each,
Like some great tape worm,
You dream of both the death of chivalry
And the so- called advancement of feminism,
While a whole line of middle-aged working women
Stand, legs apart like concentration camp guards,
In leather boots, their feet tired and worn
From supporting bone,
As they become revisionists of history.
Meanwhile, events, like the passing natural phenomenon of
Trees, estuary and sprawling dune,
Seep too into consciousness…
Your hand fumbles on the shirt buttons,
The second one down, it slips behind the shirt.
Flesh touches flesh and you feel the sudden
Warmth and ripples under the skin
Touching your finger- tips and suddenly
You have both entered the finite universe
Of possibility, as there is only so much time!
Ah, but the mind is infinite…
And your memory banks are almost full.
Your fingertips explore further,
Each passing second granting rich discovery.
The rising and falling of your cupped palm,
Beneath the flesh the blood runs in avid
Tides whose currents bear you on, horizonless…
The all too finite universe of possibility,
Provoked by human touch, is stretched,
Paradoxically, within its own seemingly
Impossible claims to infinity.
Although, spatial dimensions can
Be measured in terms of mere fractions,
Often in the hundreds or thousands, they will
Also, nonetheless, signal simultaneously
The virtual impossibility of any physical
Contact, such are the complex intricacies
Of the idiom of interpersonal relations.
The mythic-Arthurian rose of 12th century
Occitan poetry, both chivalrous and crude,
Being as rigorously exacting as the plotline of any novel.