I’m out of luck again
And out of inspiration,
And Lenin is on the train
To the Finland station.

He knows what he’s doing
He knows what’s to be done,
And here I am
Standing on the platform.

*

I feel the lure
Of the suburbs calling,
To be simple to be wise
A pretender
Living out his life
Without a hope or a prayer,
Without rhyme or reason.

But the rhyme and reason
Keep on coming.
And the need to arrive
Goes ahead of everything.
The young poet
Walking out
Into the Finnish lake,
The other in the mental asylum,
My mentor
Deducting the final days
With every cigarette he smoked.
He knew what he was doing…

And then it really hits me:
If everyone heads nowhere
Why am I so jealous
What is the hurry to join them?
The train is pulling into the station.
Everybody is nowhere.
Arriving doesn’t matter
Time after time,
Without rhyme or reason.

*

It doesn’t end;
The light-bulbs to be changed. Bed mites
In my pillow. Tides milling the shingle.
They never end.
Car hire lease payments.
The fatuousness of fame. Replication of
Cancer cells. The best dying young:
The worst getting their own
Newspaper columns. Summer nights heavy
With the smell of bad barbecues:
Autumn with diesel, spring with cocaine.
It never ends. Idiots in the chancellery. Control freaks
In their driving seats. The plunder of the forests.
The selfishness of plankton. Suspicious border guards.
The questions and evasions.
Insects thriving. Continents colliding.
Mothers screaming at their kids.
Couples shouting in the street….

They will never end.

But this
At least
Is finished.