Sylvie Hill

This Way Out (of Russell Square Station)

“You got pissed, shit happened, you can’t handle your alcohol,”
is how he said it when shit hit the fan, and I was calling him, crying from Ottawa.
The blackouts, the what-thu’s, the not-making-sense of its
He deciphered with patience, once, two times and a third, closed case.

How many times have you made a mistake,
regretted, then rinsed and repeated?
How many times have you said you’d stop,
only to find yourself again, doing it?

These are the tales of Russell Square Station
Where Hoxton Square Circles was the urge to fit (it) in
Here we have the results of giving in
to what you needed deep down by instinct.

These are the stories underlining the meaning
Of the adage: “Know thyself”
More like a warning, and a very strong caution:
UNDERSTAND your rules that keep you down.

Because one time, someTHING or someONE will tap that source
Of all the shit you keep hidden and stationed
It will erupt like the London commuters at rush hour
And topple the shit out of you and your person.

Sure, you’ll blame them and the transit system
For transporting you to dangerous places
Or maybe if you joined in on the ride for a while
A bomb blast explodes in your face, regardless.

If you can’t beat them
You may not wish to join them.
“Do you know what terminal you’re flying out of?”

“You got pissed, shit happened, you can’t handle your alcohol,”
he knew shit hit the fan, and he saved me snogging the rickshaw in London.
The blackouts, the what-thu’s, the not-making-sense of its
Did he decipher properly with patience, once, two times and a third, closed case?

No you didn’t, in two texts, you were out and playing the blame-game.
But the only way out, completely was for me to invite you in.
It’s a catch-22, innit? Room #7 at the Jesmond?
Trafalgar Square should’ve been the last visit.

Darling, that was not “initiated”
That was “may I sit next to you, please, on the train?”
You told me “I’m not your type” from the get-go
So why would I try to chase?

That said, you knew I wanted an alibi
And to be like the guilty ones who are having fun
Russell Square Station is about people who take you
To scary places you’ve always dreamed of.

It’s about the ones who know you well enough
To laugh at you, saying: “Come on, Sylvie. It’s what you wanted, grow up.”
And Muse, if I be wrong, and you truly wanted to bond
You’ve got my number, I’m in Canada.

I bet you after you did what you did
And let me off at Russell Square Station
Put your sunglasses on, went looking for some breakfast, said:
“Well, that sure will give the girl something to write about, then.”

And faded away into London.
And now I write these poems.

© Sylvie Hill 2014

ART: dixon / “Way Out” / 81x65cm / spray paint and enamel on canvas / 2007