At the Western Station the trains are always passing far beyond reason;
and the water boys have been accused of selling unlabelled bottles laced with treason.
At the Western Station the squawking tannoy has a mouth the size of Denmark.
At the Western Station I will see you very soon, dressed in a gas mask.
At the Western Station the air reeks of covert politics and promises.
All ticket sellers are provocateurs and very far from honest. At the ticket booth
they butchered that left-wing cow, the red-headed minister of justice.
The very rust on the rails is the blood from her veins—iron blue and deeply crusted.
At the Western Station the guards all dream about the petticoated cunts of angels
while the kiosk girls are always reading the works of comrade Engels.
At the Western Station the bullet-riddled cabs in the car park are always empty
and the stationmaster dines on raw hearts and tasteless minds
torn from the bodies of the gentry. At the Western Station the crippled bomber releases
control of his deadly charge; but the sniper finds that all his targets are far too large.
At the Western Station the soldiers parade in the freight yard every day
they are armed with shotguns, golden-edged knives and sharpened spades.
At the Western Station the telegraph operator is dressed in a black funeral coat
dashed with white. He has wired all the platforms with my explosive fears
and the tender tinder of your spite. At the Western Station you will be the first to break
my porcelain heart. At the Western Station pissing competitions are deadly—as is art.
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