strangers [route 1 to nottingham]

rains fall outside, coursing over the windows
outside is unimportant
darkly cold and coldly dark
lights blur under the water.

she has a thin line
like cotton thread
circling her dark neck
pink like a cat's tongue.
what's that from?
cheese wire?

(the seat in front of me
has burnmelt marks from
some faggot's lighter
0 θ θθ 00 θ)

thing of beauty

he has a cross on his hand with three
sunbeam lines jutting out
from where christ's crown would be
blue, faded
letters on his knuckles
blurring in the creases of tan skin
when did he get those?
juvie?

the kid's got a black eye
quite the shiner
holds his chin up though
good man.
what he's proud of is the blood on his fist.

wish i could
paint them like a photograph
now forever framed
hang them in the tate
(hang everything in the tate)

humanity.

they leave separately,
to their separate
autobiographies.