What would Byron and his prose have done,
oh Lord,
if he had caught the 6:07 train to nowhere much but
the glittering capital and listened,
with drowned porcelain ears,
to Scottish spiritualism,
the artistic nothing and the great absence –
these Nowhere people of nothing.

These people glued like festering wounds heal to their phones.
These people who, with beards and tattoos and broken hearts, have stopped – there,
that moment; that perfect symbolic moment that was and is their death.
These old women, turning for a hand to hold and, seeing nothing but the usurpers of the air.
These shuddering men, scratching their legs and hiding in their beers and then their beers themselves from superior women.
These crying children spouting poetry with every scream –

Mother, Oh Mother, Mother,
Oh Mother, thou art beautiful,
Oh Mother, You are my world,
Oh Mother, You are my noun;
Oh Mother, I feel rock spinning but it is nothing against the warmth of your skin,
Oh Mother, I feel rails rattling but they are nothing against the beat of your heart,
Oh, Mother, My Mother; you are warm and the world is cold.

And theirs is the poetry I want to hear;
their poetry is a Spaniard’s ‘Fuck You’,
emblazoned in tears and carved in salt
and it echoes through these half-valleys,
which echo through Hindley thrice an hour,
which shudder through Bolton and Swinton and Nowhere is their destination.

Teared poets, with shit in their bowels,
going beyond poetry and sinking,
sinking into Nowhere in the evening,
sinking into the complacency of Nowhere,
sinking into themselves, and the reality dream,
sinking into their mothers’ breasts and developing Freudian minds
as they sink.

I was told there was a rope in Nowhere.