• Vol. 09
  • Chapter 10
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Train Thoughts

A mower, an army backpack, a tub of odds and ends all walk onto a train–
the train is pulling into a station, the train is pulling into a station,
where monthly, people push the things they no longer need onto it
and as the doors open at each station people can put on 
their unwanted items, and pick up something that they want, and so on.
And by the end of the day when everyone has taken their pick and dropped off
their trash, the trains filled with the leftover unwanted shit disappear into a tunnel
never to be seen again. 

I am thinking of trains in motion pictures which during the Hays code were used
to signify sexual intercourse. I am thinking
of these trains guzzled by tunnels, flowing
 into mountains, their metal trammelled
into the fabric of nature, like diamonds back into coals.
Going back home. 

Of course their parts never came from that specific mountain,
but deep in mountains far away, and then ferried here,
to transport unwanted items from station to station to find fresh hands.
One man’s trash is another man’s treasure. One woman’s train of thought
is another woman’s shit-for-brains is another woman’s mower-army-back-pack. 

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Ghosts of feathers travel early, soaked in dawn light, 
remnants of rain. 
They swallowed neon, escaped the tides, destroyed 
dreams of vast obsidian; 
swapping starless skies with mirrors and musk, 
their chests full of spiders, 
unable to move, unwilling to wake. 
This robust machine cuts across the citadels, 
each one licked by placid shades of caramel –
and the day ignites.
Their tongues sing tales of smaller hours, 
ballads of scorched earth, melodies for evasions, 
the barbarians were coming for their gold. 
They taste the honey in the knuckles, 
now as victors they go home. 
Shields scratched by thorns and vine, 
dented armours left behind, 
stubble-bruised lips now yearning for a balm. 
To dull the aches, blinding thumps, 
battering rams danced their waltzes, bleeding 
through lime, juniper and salt. 
At last, blades were blunt,
mouths ran dry. Their train is now ready to depart.



There is plenty to cry about.
Trees leaving,
Dropping their pale petals on to trimmed grass lawns,
Where women are canoodling,
Entwining their necks, pecking on breadcrumbs and dropping tears into a vial.
'Something hurts', they call these bottles, 
And what a sensation,
What a nagging, slithering, biting sensation,
What a clawing, gaping, crabby little pit it makes in your stomach, you must try it.
You must try hurting.
You must buy it.
Vial after vial is cried in and bottled out to the general crowd, the ones that have
Nowhere to leave to
Not much to cry about, you know, the city life,
You know what it's about.
They sit on their manicured grass, shaved like a good school child,
And they quake with a tremendous hurt, call it woman-pain, call it crowing, harrowing pain,
It is such a delight.
To hurt and to cry.
And with every teardrop that leaves the body,
An old sliver of self slides down with it, dribbles to the ground.
Tear after tear chips away, it is a painful parting.
The city people now, they walk around crying, they say
'I am leaving'