An oddly-shaped melancholic heart hovers in the middle of the room
while somewhere else, not too far away, glass is breaking
to let life in, or take it away once and for all.
Strange cocktails they forgot to cover in chocolate
cost only a piece of your soul – another piece for a straw.
Alongside the rail tracks where they have no coffee
or even tea but nice human luxuries and an unknown airline
that’s the best one in the world. Walk eastwards
to the unwanted city and westwards to the homeless city.
Love is a lonely constant in life:
we get up one morning and nothing’s changed
except our eyes that look upon this world.
From there on further, farther,
where it all suddenly stops and rewinds.
To the ocean floor two miles out of Iceland,
we’ll hide deep inside. Glaring whites recall
the shades of grey donated by a poet long gone.
Princess is gone and there’s no Joy.
The railway station in Swindon, a large town midway between Cardiff and London.