We flee Brixton for the smoky spotlit Underground. At Vauxhall, we jaywalk; Survive dodgy tunnels decorated With National Front and disorganised White pride proverbs - black and blue Scriptures dripping with red spray. The urine dampened concrete flue shoves us about urges us towards rows of warehouses, where bass throbs pound past long queues outside windowless walls. Inside, the 'ladies' and 'gents' toilets flow Over into a narrow corridor of heads bobbing And shoulders blinking with dilated pupils And diluted blood streams. Extending across two rooms draped in gauze Between which nightlifers meet and greet one Another and welcome newcomers The sweat and breath of dancing scale their way To the ceiling, then condense and roll down the walls. Nine hours pass Tempo quickens Dehydration, dancers, and mad lights bounce Together into blue green yellow orange frenzy Unaware of lemonade daybreak Finally, we must leave and squint at natural light Outdoors, the silent Sunday morning lie ins Replace the DJ's cooing and our eyes and ears divide the sounds of passing cars and escalators into one hundred and sixty beats per minute - life's tummy ache hums and grumbles As it glides and surfs over the surface of bodies In the dozy sober world. Tracks move the Tube according to schedule We board and Urgency joins us. Two proper Sunday church uniforms dressed in women Sat across from us touch furtive glances lance our tattoos, club sopped and tatterly clothed, And feed their righteousness. They watch and judge, whilst Necessity and Discomfort start to aggravate each other, a skeletal implosion spreads a sour Tickle itch up my spine. Impatient I try to thwart your attempts to comfort and assure: "Let's wait till we get home. We're almost there." But your Muswell Hill and water closet promises are ages away. Destination -- Two more stations, but composure runs out. You trudge like a disgruntled but submissive soldier Behind feet that mind the gap and skip the tracks To reach empty Sunday morning in Oxford Circus, Where shut up shops lock us out This time not because of the way we dress or have no money But because we get lost in the stabbing bristles Of the litter gatherers' brooms I scurry and scramble silently, feet stuck My head spins around streetwashers Until I turn to the sound of you, my fellow crusader, squat At the joint of sidewalk and railings And I become the infant soldier and you the brigadier general With the inception of a trickle, then a stream What join in a hissing splash And roll by my feet.