Stalking Yourself

Down the subway; big words no talk,
crews of spraycan shamen who surf
‘Don’t Panic !’ - with an exclamation mark
that curves away on the ceiling,
and they ride it like a wave of certainty;
free wheeler-dealing.

A-creeping up behind you whistling
wind tunnel serenades, jiving litter
and torn posters chit-chat and gossip
about victims of axe attacks
and whisper the history of paranoia.

Faces of action heroes and heroines
watch without a flicker
just when you need some pirate help
or a suited geezer with a scar on his forehead
and a sawn-off shooter.

A short walk. You will make it.
Reach the exit sign and still be breathing,
climb those stairs
to stand in neon brilliance
mumbling and reciting the rhymes
of ancient ghosts
that unemotionally clothe you.

Ahead! See the amber haze
like harbour lights;
but motionless with primal fear
you become disconnected, feel naked;
the stomp of footsteps footsteps,
marching through your every reasoning.

So exposed you realize
your need to be robed in traffic noise
with extra siren sonatas, and the spish
splash windscreen wiper sounds
all stirred together with reassuringly familiar
sights and smells, of these dirty
old streets of London town
that compel you to regurgitate
sickly lumps of jaded love songs,
empower you with determination
to reach home
into the waiting arms of loved ones;
if only you had one.

Straight back. Walk tall,
ignore the morse code semaphore
the tic-tac of fluorescent stammers;
the signal: Coming to get you.

Cool walk. Rock steady,
keep pace with subway echoes
stride for resonating stride,
‘cos it looks such a long distance
you’re never gonna get there
taking one small step at a time.

Haunted by creeping figments,
self-flagellating
with neurotic obsessions,
behind your back
your shadow manifests
into your subterranean assassin.

©2007 P.A.Levy