Heat of dozens up your nose.

eyes that dart, roll and close.

At Piccadilly—frenzy.

At Swiss Cottage—empty.

Plain palettes of flesh,

blackened, sooted, nostrils no longer fresh.

You look nowhere now,

everywhere becoming slightly askew.

Shoved in, heel, toe and shin

you become the mass

unable to win.

If only you could connect,

faces of cotton you can’t protect.

An excess of detachment found

ever since.

Darkness beyond the carriage,

You long to imagine some great passage.

You’re under trapped under the immense above,

You’ve now clicked into a mind unplugged.