It takes about forty-five minutes on the train
That's three quarters of an hour more or less,
And as the countryside vistas flow past
I can listen to The Jesus And Mary Chain.
Of course I could listen to anything I desired,
An act of Puccini, maybe all of Tabarro.
All just as long as it allows me the drift
Drowsily merging the rhythm required
To make my commuting seem so surreal
And take me away from the urban
I wake early these days
And often miss the ends of dreams.
It's not going to bother me much though
As I am doomed to tune-in to the repeats.
Breathless, bathed in a sweaty melancholy,
The rancid wings of the giant carrion birds
Envelope me, smother me, enervate me, and enfold me
As they wait for my inevitable demise.
I'm lucky to have survived this long,
From the ceaseless pecking of