A poet on the train

I exist. The lights go by and we sit there looking at the dark windows move as the landscape changes in front of us. Yes. The train moves and with it we move forward. Where? Where are we going. Where? I shout without shouting, just writing on a piece of blank paper.
Fuck! She whispers a thing or two and I don’t understand. I nod. Yes. She accommodates in her seat and looks away. Someone reads a magazine, or another of those crappy newspapers that they give away for free. The images start pouring into my mind, as the black outside moves in front of the window. They wait in line to enter the club in front of an NYC venue. She has a delicious pussy. Shaved (almost) with a few hairs and her lips taste like something I can’t define. Her lips taste like her lips I guess. Sounds lame but it is true. Yes. Yes. I write and cross out the few things I say. I write and keep quiet. Quiet, very quiet and listening and from the window to my right that quiet picture comes looking at me from a soup and a calm of darkness. And he, a man I’ve never seen, looks at me from far away. Very far. Very far away as if trying to recall a story, trying to recognize me.
Someone else looks at us from the back and the infinite chain of glances multiplies ad infinitum on the dark and moving glass.
Yes. Quiet. Yes. Quiet. Something pulses inside me. Something undefinable and obscure. I write in feverish calligraphy the word.
Passion. And I stop. I look at it, and it looks back at me with its monstrous eyes and shouts at me tainted with a disgusting laughter.
Fuck you Passion. I cross it out until its shouts vanish. Fuck you Passion. Fuck you.
The scratch of the pen on the paper makes such a loud noise it hurts my ears, it hurts my hand, and my hand muscles and I turn and she is looking with a lost glance in front of her. I can’t take it. I can’t stand it anymore. The scratching. It hurts my ears. It does. I keep writing, and the noise keeps growing, growing growing, and she looks in front of her, and I try to see where is she looking at, and there is a homeless man that carries a big black plastic bag, and a map of colourful metro lines pasted behind him and the nape of an old fat woman sleeping in front of us.
So I feel it. Puuum! The break comes and my inside loosens. The noise collapses and the page stands in front of me, white, plain, and silent.

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