I swipe two cans of Coke
left for accounts,
crack one open as my train leaves behind a grizzly scene
of vacuum cleaners strangling each other
in a cupboard about to explode like an atom-bomb.
I sit back letting the fart-soothed seat
have its way with me.
I let out a slow soft-belch,
a satisfyingly baritone-emission
just inches short of where
my esophagus is big daddy
in the biological underground,
where tonsils are bagmen
who run from bars to bookies
to cafes and address cops as Mr. Mulligan, Sir.
James told me this morning he believed
the difference between a Yorkshire accent
and a Lancashire one was a certain buuurrrr
that clings to the final syllable
of each sentence.
This is how it goes down,
how it should be,
this is how we moved from a swamp
to a city, conquering all that dared stand before us