Well, I don’t know what
Moves you lot
today. 
With your telephone small talk

and selfies
Is everyone but me here
A tourist?
on the aching familiar trail north
Running, (but crawling) late
Some poor selfish bastard
Hurled himself on the rails?
Our grave pilot tells us
The silence for him or her
Is not a minute
Nowhere near
A teenager says
‘what’s the point?’
So no change there
Invent your own I think
but I don’t say it
I can’t be bothered frankly
They’ll probably fucking shank me.
Today it’s Mrs C’s funeral that moves me
and everything that can go wrong
Does
and it’s ‘Is this our stop or the next one?’
Cuz
What y writing asks his ‘cousin’
‘Thoughts’ I deadpan
‘heard of them?’ I nearly add
Burgess and his hill be damned!
‘So what ya thinking’
He insists
‘This n that just sketches’
‘Is it a rap?’
He guesses

This just in
The bloke who looks nothing like a rapper
Went to the toilet then sat somewhere else
as no one got on or off
at Wivelsfield.
Where was I?
The automated tannoy voice
is broken
Makes its announcements Helium voiced
Some grim smiles wan
Haywood and his heath be damned
In Monday cold sunshine
Smile later in the week maybe…
A moby blats
half an conversation begins shouty
about the outlook for someone called ‘wiggy’
after what was said and done
at the party
furtive frowns
abound
I think about the funeral
and tune it out
Balcombe intervenes
Ball comb?
Leave it!
No one on or off again
pointless stop two
Can you believe it?
The button that you thought would open the door
Flushes the loo.
Feel a little sad and sick
push on heroically
Well Gat my wick.
The voice of michael mouse speaks quickly
If you see something that doesn’t seem right
Inform the staff
I see a first class twat
See it say it sort it
good luck with that

There follows an apology for the disruptions
squeaky and insincere
No one laughing
or listening here
a distant voice calls
‘The old rapper disappeared!’
‘Got off at the airport coz he’s posh’
everyday folk shouting everyday tosh
The cartoon rodent voice interrupts
(the only thing here that’s high speed)
Your next stop is east Croydon
That’s it blame me!
My life, a fiasco viewed by a clown
at least London Bridge
Hasn’t fallen down
a relief
I’m looking late for the funeral
It appears
Is that pathos or bathos
well it’s one of them Musketeers
Black friars
says the disembodied Disney voice
no thanks
an arrow outside then says ‘Holborn hill’
another says ‘cash machine’
adjust pants.
It drags on,
on the blue tartan seats of doom
On and on
apparently, somewhere,
Someone’s Farring Don
then Saint Pancreas
A troubling name
Fucking Saints
Fucking train
Fucking time ticks me off
fucking late
We trundle through a dying station with no name
Extinct
Gone
as the shrill rodent says the saints name
and someone say’s
‘What did she say?’
and I realise it’s been Mini all along
and I’m counting down the stations
of the cross country slog
destination nearing snail paced
Clock flying and walking this race
black suit pale face
grinds teeth wills haste
No chance Jacko
no way mate
Sorry Mrs C
we’re both late I guess
Mini speaks but I miss it
trying to think of a rhyme for St Pancreas
and
I look white in the window reflection
and glum
trying to immortalise
my mates mum.
an old girl smiling
catches my eye
says ‘you look very smart
where y headed’
A funeral I sigh
she says
‘Oh no, have you far to go’
I say no the next one is mine’

A Coda.
(Free blood of Albion)

So at the terrific service for the last of the great original matriarchs of our tribe, in the willow whack

test match sunshine of Hertfordshire, , the pastor mentioned that Mrs C had received her gold medal for donating her 50th pint of blood!..Think now you whirling headed children of the digital wasteland that is England ltd.com. Think slow and long on how the NHS, -this fabulous edifice manned by the self sacrificing saints of healing and caring- is fuelled by the free blood given daily by these quiet angel heroes. and ask yourself, you practicality driven materialists of the enterprise profit curse, would they, would Mrs C, have been elevated by charging for it?
How many nameless lives did she save?
Who would look to profit on her like?
Should those who would decide the fate of the free blood of Albion? 

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