Tuesday, 14 August 2012

Behind The Yellow Line

(I think I'm right in saying this was one of the few poems I wrote whilst I was gallivanting around Australia. At this point the creative juices really weren't flowing very well, and there was nobody about who was willing to give me the necessary kick up the backside.  

I ended up reading this a couple of times when I returned to London, then forgetting all about it.  Should I have?  Well, should I have?  Oh, who knows?)

…and she muttered something
about missed opportunities, then
she said: “sometimes
I think the lines on my
face are old battle trenches,
or perhaps nonsense
words of X, Y and Zs
scraped by an
illiterate child on an
empty English beach,
and sometimes I think I
speak no more sense
than those.

And sometimes, when I
gaze at myself in the
mirror under the
overcrowded, blonde
antiseptic light, I
see forgotten numbers to
disconnected phones
etched into my scalp.

And I have travelled so
much I hear their voices
taunt me all the time.
They say
‘stand behind the yellow
line, another train will be
along shortly’, and ‘just
think, if you lived
here you’d be
home already’”.

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