Tuesday, 13 February 2018

Every which way but...


I know this platform,
These tracks,
Those tracks too.
I know this place.

God I know this place;
There I drank,
There smoked too.
I know these platforms.

Once I caught the
Yellow train
And found myself
In Liverpool.

In Liverpool,
The first day,
I moved myself
And I was caught.

Somewhere between there and here I was caught in another way.
I’ve told that story a few times. A kind of movie.
Sometimes your journey starts halfway through another one,
And you can find yourself in a duo for the rest of your days.

I know this platform too.
These tracks
Those take you
Back home, to drink.

Oh I wanted to drink:
To shout and show
These tracks
I knew those platforms too.

Once I said that
I tried to get home
So I went up front
And tried to drive the train.

(I said I tried to drive,
But in actual fact
I just saw the open cockpit.)
But I said that,

Because it was a good story to tell, and I enjoyed telling it.
And I enjoyed believing it. So did the people that heard it.
They wanted to believe it too. And, really, really, who
Was I to deny that? Who was harmed? So fuck it.

And these platforms -
To Wales or Manchester
Or Leeds or wherever -
To countless gigs.

To countless gigs
With mates and magickers
Seeking the pleasure
From these platforms.

I’m here again,
But I don’t know which way
I’m supposed to go, and
I’m confused by this.

I’m confused by this
For a moment; which way
These days is home?
I’m here again.

It’s a strange feeling, isn’t it. Seeing the same brick and rusted iron
That’s stood for longer than I could, though year on year it changes
Slightly, but inexorably. I spose I do too. Some of us can’t.
That’s a strange feeling. Well, it’s not a fun game. I wish these platforms

Could help me travel
Not to different places
But to different times.
Back to those moments.

And back to moments
Where some now-faded faces
Are sharp-drawn and fine.
Only fleetingly can my sad mind travel

To those times.


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