The Journey Home.

The journey home

on sticky, stained hard seats.

The poles in the centre rise up

in honour of the working hours being over

and the prostitute newspapers droop

from too many different sticky fingers

flicking, voyeuristic and entertained

before throwing away

the object that loses its use

after one quick go.

I look out the window

through a condom like pasty sheet of plastic

and see the pink hue

of the evening catching up with us.

Warm and revealing

it glides through the gaps

of the bald trees with their branches and twigs

reaching out, proud on display.

Together the two look like a hairy vagina

with softly pinkened skin

ripe from being sucked.

What a peach.

We go through another tunnel on the tube

and I think that everything in the world is obsessed

with sex.

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