Concrete and Clay

The underground. Tight steel tunnel. Thousands of angry heads itching to scream. Sweat. Close. Black suits. Morgue convention.

I stretch onboard between spawn of others and onto someone's shiny black shoes. By accident. You'd think from his face that I'd exhumed his grandmother and spat in her eye sockets. His bitterness is reflected in two black leather mirrors and warped like a toby jug.

Sorry.

Close eyes. White shapes spinning.

Time starts to stretch at Holborn. Lower back is wet. Itchy London arse in the bowels of the earth.

Need to scratch. Too many layers. Trying to reach, I elbow evil Clark Kent again. Like I've put kryptonite in his face. Earphones stop his curse from pouring into my ear. Thankfully corked.

Tottenham Court Road. Nothing to hold onto. Swaying. No longer in this century. White steel lights and pyramids.

Queensway is closed for the next five hundred years. Will not be stopping at the next station.

White City. Light outside. Salvation from army of suits.

Tomorrow will eat more breakfast.