It’s the same train.

Changing carriages hasn’t altered that.

But now the impenetrable darkness of tunnels

is neutralised by a hand reached for secretly

and the knowledge of the imminent re-emergence

of familiar faces in the light.

It is possible to disembark at the station of your choice

or, in an emergency, pull the cord

and trudge off into unmarked territory,

ignoring the shaking fists of railway staff.

But no; for the time being

familiarity is more potent than adventure.

It is still permitted to re-trace your steps

and peer into carriages where you once sat.

In some your space may even still be vacant,

amongst those who are, and will remain, unmoved.

In others your seat is now occupied and

despite the comforting smiles of those you know,

it will remain that way.

Eventually,

you must return to your new-chosen cubicle,

to weather report conversations,

to standard gauge concepts

and to waiting patiently

for the dawn

of the courage to get off.

We inherited each other,

through our partners.

Sympatico in our independent couplings,

we come and go through comfortable back doors.

We trudge spouseless fairways;

you in striking composure,

me in decomposing childhood,

one hitting a ball, the other a concept.

We are golfing mates, with intellects on hold,

waiting for God to appear

and to be shirt-fronted.

We are the corporate traders

of Machiavellian minutiae and managerial mayhem,

therapising our petit four with another crisp champagne.

You, the firm, lucid seeker;

me, the loose, loquacious dilettante,

but both guarding a world of secrets

never to be shared elsewhere.

I’m not sure I really know you

but you have such a familial face.

In popular history

the alchemist was a figure of mystical greed

in dark workshops,

forever reducing the base

in the search for gold,

‘midst mumbled incantations

and closely guarded formulae.

Her history

is one of worldly spendthrift,

perceiving that gold

is the base with the lights on

and shouting the obvious

to the oblivious

from the rooftops,

in words of one syllable like

‘love’.

The alchemist of old

was frustrated by the poverty of iron.

She

is frustrated by the poverty of light.

Stop me if you’ve heard this

but there’s this woman, see,

and she walks into this bloke’s life

(bold as brass)

and she marches up to him and goes

“I’ll have a life friendship, thanks”.

And this bloke goes,

“Sorry, only got ships that pass in the night friendships;

fresh out of life”.

So this woman goes,

“Well, I’ll wait ’til you get one in”.

And the bloke goes,

“Nar, don’t stock ’em any more;

they’re always breakin’ down

and they cost too much to repair”.

So the woman goes,

“Well, I’ll make one then.

I’ve got a bit of spare love

and a mattress on the floor

and a corkscrew

and a high boredom threshold”.

And the bloke goes,

“Alright, alright, but there’s a few conditions”.

So she goes, she goes,

(listen to this, you’ll love this!)

she goes

away.

Beware the wine-sodden brain flailing on,

kidding itself in the darker hours,

paying homage to could-a-been.

Beware the anger trotted out,

dusted off and laid bare to reflections in a bloodshot eye,

to spring a self-laid trap.

Let there be a new start,

urged on by a body daily less vertical

and thoughts of eternity horizontal.

Stay away from old ground,

where every night is New Year’s Eve and nothing is resolved,

or risk seeing past comrades on distant hills,

their torch-dreams kindled by motion,

pausing less and less often to look back

at your immobile figure.

Standing still,

the grubby sticks of history are consumed quickly

in those parodies of hell,

the warmthless braziers of bitter reminiscence.

Forsake all wretchedness,

for you are not plundered.

Beneath your public rags lie priceless jewels,

secreted and perversely forgotten,

whose re-discovery waits on nakedness.

Choose not to wear sackcloth

and arise from your meal of ashes,

hungry for the flesh of the world

and the hard beauty of your diamond self.