The Underground Is So Mainstream

I suppose I am too old to run away -
though not too old for another mental breakdown.
But, before I order my hypo-allergenic cat,
or ask if the straitjacket comes in skinny-fit,
I will spend a day riding around the multi-coloured sprawl
of the London Underground.

Amateur Transplants didn't give it great reviews,
but I'm still at the stage where I find the underground fascinating.
There's something beautiful about its angular anatomy;
a web of veins with foreign names on white tiles.

The scarlet arteries of the Central line, like the wire
the secret agent is supposed to cut when suspended,
akimbo and spider-like, from the vaulted ceiling.
And the dark blue straits of the Piccadilly line,
seeping towards Heathrow like spilled ink.

I will ride on t' Northern line, just to be ironic.
A photo will be taken of me at Knightsbridge;
the station with the most consecutive consonants
in its name. (Heard that on 'Mastermind' in 1999.)

I will smile at anyone whose soul is being slowly
corroded by the sharp lights and rubbish and rattle.
I alone will laugh when the aloof woman
announces: "Cockfosters", and will return
the disdainful side-ways glances with a grin.

My pockets full of loose change, I will clang
like a cymbal as I wander the white warrens -
searching out saxophonists and singers
to share my echo and ten pence pieces.

Maybe I will behave myself just a little;
ride on the right hand side of the escalators,
and never try to bolt the barriers.

But they will never get me to colour within the lines,
and this is certain:

I will greatly enjoy this act of insanity prevention.