Trains to Paddington Station

Yellow soars as I open my eyes for a journey

around the world in my imagination. Many stops cut (short)

due to lack of funds. Blood rushes to the brain as I

stand on my head in a Paddington Station lavatory.

Tickets, who's got tickets? I have, said the blind

conductor, smiling as he strolls away from the platform

breaking into hideous side-splitting laughter

heard from way across the Atlantic. See you

on the other side of hell, chirped the magpie

priest; he doffs his miter with a two-foot blade of

her Majesty's finest Wilkinson.

Perhaps evening prayers are in order; if sent by express post,

they'll make it by Tuesday (only decades late for

redemption) (only half¬way to securing a rite of

atonement) after the half-past four tea-time

surrounding Aunt Lou’s Battenberg cakes left out for the

paper-boy bringing by yesterday's news. Maybe if I

just close my eyes, all the puzzle pieces will fall into

place on the oaken table left to me by

my mother's great uncle on her father's side; a present tied up

with a cherry red bow dripping abject sanity.

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