Stunned by an iron-black fatigue, I am a man driven mental
by a woman I’ll never meet. I stagger rock-still
beneath the poster for Supernature by Goldfrapp.
Across the tube-lines is her semi-nude music advert.
Someone’s daughter shed her clothes for that ad –
or never put them on – in the name of art:
the art of getting really famous so that strange men
slake their concupiscence on you on tube platforms.
I adore her high cork-heeled shoes.
The unshaven, Caledonian guitarist
sings the Dancer at the Gate of Death,
or something which sounds oddly like that,
fierce and obscurely irreconcilable
with any imaginable dance-manoeuvres.
He hammers the strings like a slaughtering drum,
repetitious and bleakly sardonic,
to the commuter-girl’s heel strike
like so many chisels on high-end, black marble.
This is a day for jumping. This is not a day
for jumping under; it is a day for jumping into
the moment that is gone before landed in,
into that arriving thwack which will rush me off
to the end of the line and all points connecting.
The rails boom to the oncoming train, plosive along the line
to fuck-knows-anywhere-actually, further even.
Travelling back and forth is its own form of stasis.
‘On attend le Metro,’
a Frenchwoman outlines to her little girl.
The resonance pounds in the gaps between noise
as the sound survives the death of her song
and the fluorescents judder with delayed silences.
Consider the interiority of a coal-grey rat,
purposeful knowing no purpose,
that scurries between the track of disused lines.
Invisible rain crashes from the inner sky.
It always comes down to this:
I am at the gate along a black tunnel.
My personality lacks all cohesion. I am in fragments.
Thank heavens for you at least, Alison Goldfrapp
and your half-naked advert, your unconscionably elongated legs,
the bare back of your bent wrist held fastidiously
in place of your breasts in a faux-breast, more breast than breast
as these devices tend to be. Alison,
I could wait at the end of line for you,
for the exact pair of doors to slide fully across, to open
so that I might enter manfully and with a true conviction.
The twin black holes of the tunnel-ends
suck the platform out like a flat, deflatable universe
in the same way that the whole lunatic edifice
will itself be sucked back to nought, the abiding nought.
All things die, and when you die you’re dead. End of.