The train of my young flame

I thought I saw my young flame on the train yesterday;

and she sat right next to me without speaking to any

body; but, even so, I felt the warmth of her body against mine:

her leg along my leg, as I sat quite unable to inspect quite properly

who she really was; and because I was unable to see her reality,

I imagined another instead, as so often in my life it seems to be the 

case: a race to engineer and develop substitute being, and a sex

and seeing, and a doing and did: and a present and past which,

inconceivably bright, would nurture and culture and nature

my soul, that role which has been saddening mine.

And so then, then, then a stranger than strange thing happened: 

she got up from my side and stood next to the doors, so

far ahead of the station that able I was, even below that 

glare of dreadful CCTV (which sees sees right through to – baleful! –

operator’s televaginal thoughts of oughts and shouldn’ts 

and ruddy musts, so bloody broken on broken [t]rust), to examine

her reminding beauty: and so I saw her blue dress was dark but

transparent, and her blue shoes were ever so goddamn profound

and yet 

high without extraordinary effort: and she made me think of her 

sex deep in that dark, and I didn’t want just to watch: 

not a CCTV-lover any more, on this score: the touch of your skin 

on mine so much older, and your wily ingenuity, 

and your wonderfully sneaky ways, and much more; and the 

games you’ve been playing, and the futures all told which 

your clever cells do still, even today and when, bewitch and 

conjure up

in me and my loosely, lonely, bewildering e-

motioned existence.

Oh dear C, dear C, dearest C of all, let me give

in to my own CCTV-ed impulse: let me both touch and watch and ex-

cite in my profession of fully made man, now groomed and 

formed, now shaped and taken; and so let me walk that 

tough and soft, and gentle and rough, and tight and hard 

street of your inner-city skin; and let this begin 

and happen soon, my truth; and let me true my life at 

very long last; 

and let it not cost the either of us as much as not going a-

head would, instead, in-

voice us unwisely!

And the train of my young flame continues to journey on its way,

in couplets unloved and unlived and unseen: and yet – for that,

even so! –

never unbeen: for I do make you real in my poetry today.

I do make you real and I do make you mine, 

even when you are not; even when you cannot.

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