Maia AlmediaAmir

Rookie (25/02/1995 / Brighton)

The Ice Age Is Coming - Poem by Maia AlmediaAmir

A drunken man stands and sways on the tube train.
The rickety, rackety tube train.
His friends are drunk too, too drunk to be
Breaking the law like they are,
And they all believe that they're the Alpha of the pack.
But he and I both know that only he his.

He who stands lax in the corner, dodging
The tracks and breaking the little conversation.
He has that,
That lusted-after eye of authority, you know,
The one that reveils a lot of the person, but that
Small glint within it makes you doubt it's autheticity.
He and I know that he's a double-crossing swine,
An instant sell-out if I ever saw one.

He isn't happy with his friends,
There's something asleep inside him that
Never slumbered within them and he knows it.
Irony. The Alpha is the outcast.
I could almost smile.
He is of ambiguos profession, he has a
Wife and maybe a child. Son, though he'd of prefered a daughter.
A London lad through-and-through
So he never understood The Clash,
And the lappings of the west-end sophistication
He never dared to read about break through
The strong, coarse east-end of his tongue and thoughts.
He is the storm.

The psychopath on the train, guys, look -
I found him. The weirdo.
But you won't look 'casue he's drunk and talking too loudly.
And you believe if you talk to him, he could be your rapist,
Or your unfortunate mugging, right? Wrong.
The psychopath isn't dangerous.
Becasue he doesn't yet know himself.
He uses his non-emotion for his friends
Or they were friends once in the long grey summertime of youth.

See their smiles, and boozy laugher,
He is a mirror for them, a caricature.
A social steroid pill,
Botox for the weak.
So don't fear the Cockney Psycho on the tube train,
The rickety, rackety tube train.
He has the knowing mind of a psychopath
And, though it's your fault he's like this, he knows it not.
There's no trouble here, Officer, Ma'am.
He wouldn't hurt a fly.

Because not one of us, not a single damned one of you,
Sees below the primal danger we all feel at the
Mere sight of a creature such as him.
Frightened little ducklings, the lot of you. Nothing
But the silent alien telepath
Can read behind those bloodshot eyes.


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Poem Submitted: Monday, January 31, 2011



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