Tubed

I wrote this late one night on the way back from the pub. Don DeLillo is one of my favourite authors and I love what he does with language, the urban space and modern culture. I took a similar approach.  Enjoy.

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It begins with a man. A single man. Littered among the discarded papers and faded seats, he stares into the floor, the stucco drawing him in. He’s nobody, a mere ghost in a sea of mediocrity and repetition.

The stale air seeps into his soul, bringing him around to the harsh reality of existence. His eyes clear, his attention drawn away from the abyss. Its welcoming call urges him to stay as his tries to shake away the haze.

Still drinking from the cup of consumerism, surrounded by false idols of worship. Water purifiers, the latest distraction of isolation, pizza. It’s washed down with a shudder, a jolt. A break.

Time is lost. The U of the Thames brings him around with its waters. The bobbing heads, the briefest of eye contact – suspicion, partnership, indifference. Nothing makes sense, morals are lost, respect pushed beneath the tumbling train.

Darker it goes, the earth embracing it like a mother does it’s newborn. The womb of the FTSE. A crack on a glass, a scratched name into the plastic armrest. Preserved until the end of time.

Beep beep beep. Mind the gap. Mind the closing doors. Mind your business. Mind your mind. Mind mind mind. Do you mind? Mynd.

And release, no bang, no light, not vast thrust into the world. Merely air, like a man struggling beneath the surface of a lake, yearning for a crisp, life affirming breath.

It begins to make sense again. Counterculture is countered by culture. He’s an easy rider clear, the fresh air cleansing the stagnant fabric of the worn seats. 4 empty, 3 taken.

His name is Jonas and he’s nobody, a grain of salt in the eye of society. He works as an administrator, administrating the bureaucracy of administration. His humble quest to complicate those that need complicating is just. Without him, it’d be too easy. There’d be no triumph over the behemoth.

He stares at the woman next to him, using the dark glass as a mirror.  She’s drooping, almost melting. Her turquoise waterproof, half zipped, her mouth pursed. Hands on her lap, black trousers, she seems to disintegrate into the carriage’s seats. Looped earrings, sparking in the artificial light of the tube.

Jonas shifts his weight away from the woman, taking solace in his thoughts. He’s wearing a suit, the uniform of obedience. Deep blue, capped off with a burgundy tie. It sits askew, off centre.

Jonas is now Jon.

Tagged: Author, Don DeLillo, marco fiori, Metro, Poem, TFL, The Tube, Train, Tube, Tubed