Boro Hall
Tracks filled with coal. Grey maggots sludge to the station. Oily eyes. Bars of iron strand wrapped by grime, tin can signs. Electric bullets bleed upon the rails. Blue, white flashes leap in joy. They move, they move constantly they move. Faces of quaint horror press forward in casually crushed newspaper. Laying on neatly boxed ads, they stare at pinched bolts. Chains ruminating in counterpoint to the roar blistering roar of the engine. Press your mouth like O against rigid glass.