Scott Sowerby

August 18, '97 - Yorkshire
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District W - 21.8.23

The lights from the station platform,
Flicker on the floor of the carriage,
As the train pulls away into the dark.

My fingers and toes counteract,
The toing, and froing, pushing
Hard into the floor. The handrail

Crumples and deforms under,
The squeezing of my hand. White
Knuckled, stoney eyed, I stare.

Through the rectangular port hole,
Into the next carriage. Break dust
And decades of dead skin, float.

I stare to keep the reel,
Moving, flashing, for me.
Exclusively on the tube.

The silent film enacted,
In parallel carriage world,
Is engrossing. I am

Reading each scene with ease.
Each synchronised bob, a picture,
Worthy of a lack of words.

Lights in the tunnel walls,
flash in my periphary.
Like ghosts, the tracks quake.

Strapping myself into a restraint,
On Rita The Queen Of Speed,
And donning my crash helmet,

I am suddenly careening,
Out of a mundane, gossipy episode.
Obliterating the worn out set.

Fuck it, I'm thinking. Lights out.
Yous can all come with me.

I arrive out of the darkness.

The projections' facade flaps.

The doors slide open.

The illusion shatters.

For the first time,

I see the holes, in the silver screen.
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