Saturday, May 19

The Ouroboros Project #7 - The Man

{Poem number 7 is about a man I saw on the Ginza line. Oh, and an earthquake that never happened}

There he sits, juggling his life neurotically, belting through the gash of light, workward – homeward - while we all ignore him. And then my mind wanders to a conversation that never happened:

The sheath, our vessel, shudders, it’s not the wheels. Are we even on the tracks? My new imaginary mate is silent amongst it all. His bottle top glasses glint in the emergency lighting, as does the sweat on his forehead, his pores doing overtime – much like the reflection of this dream’s soul. His top lip quivers; a hive-five from his Adam’s apple. Pow.

The earth jars again and the train becomes wreckage close to instantly and is bent like a can, a straw, a piece of bloody melon bread; that’s half the caboose totaled, life squeezed through the wreckage like sickly red toothpaste. The roar is thunderous.

“How’s it going?”
The crush continues and we are all pushed closer, closer, bottle tops denting my brow; maybe someone is screaming, but the reality has turned surreal and silenced the muzzled throes. The tube is three quarters used. Still loads more paste though.

“So so.”
Dear me, who’d have thought I’d be hear, French kissing this guy with the jaws of quietus slowing gagging on my metallic prepubescent tomb. Fine, choke on it you mug. Go on. Go on. Terror, slaps me hard, I hear the fracture of lens, then bend of frame, the finish of stubble kneading my face raw.

“What’s new?”
Yeah, air is a lamentable loss at present as the jaws chew mercilessly on my leg. Dear me, it’s really happening innit? A crazed laugh spasm from me, my friend too, I feel water trickle over me. Oh, it’s red, dear God, it’s red – and warm and his. The tremors stop, unlike the liquid trickle, trickle, trickle, me old mucker.

“When did you come to Japan?”
The tremors may have stopped but rigid bodies still squirm, trapped, elbows saying a thing or two to kindly neighbour, unkindly community. Jeez, the moans, the gargles, thick glass slicing at my face, his glasses, glasses, dear me.

“Ginza, desu.”
And our story is over and off he shuffles, faux case in hand into the new dreary day, maybe his dream, maybe his nightmare.

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