Ms Ghost Station

I’m in King Cross’s womb

Bumping down the disused 


Ready to slop out in the early hours

All grey due to my recent surroundings

I’m found in

Slippery oil slicks, hi vis

And darkness

But I felt safe in there

The air stuffed itself

It gorged on bum fluff

Supervisor huff, and 

She churns in her own emptiness

Open for all the men 

Who come

And go

Without appreciating the false


Of unnatural light

That is all she knows


But which is the only aid

In them finding their way out

She don’t know how

To get movement charging through


Her neighbours tease

Ridden tracks and God’s own breeze

They vibrate above her, 

As she begs them please

Lend me something that I need

But the signals fail

And she’s diseased to life-long pleads

But I’m here, darling

Sitting in your black, damp pocket

Of grit

I look through the tunnels,

They are lit

With spotlights 

A catwalk for mice

I know my ten hour shift will never suffice

You’ve been here twice the time

I have


Hopefully next weekend I’ll be assigned

To you

Spend Saturday in your grasp

Or perhaps you’ll cave in on yourself

And the van just won’t get past

I’ll get paid to be on your outskirts

Longing to roll back through

To your belly

Protected in your cocoon

As I escape from the full moon. 

By Lyric Deep.

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