Boozy On The London Underground

I raise this last can to the Internet,
to information overload and friends I've met.
It's fascinated me for hours on end
and everyone on Earth is now my friend.
It's opened doors to art, philosophy and verse,
to gourmet guzzling and the universe -
a lager-fuelled life of love and thought,
kebabs and Einstein with a single malt;
of wild and woolly notions set at nought.
And so: a toast to stuff like quantum, relativity
black holes, worm holes, the big bang and Complexity!
I drink to images of Jupiter and Mars;
and heady stuff about the birth and death of stars.

You're looking mystified...
I’ll demonstrate! This can... I said my last... I lied.
For now, we'll call it sun. Fantastic powers inside:
think tons  (a googol times a googolplex) of gelignite.
I shake it, pull the ring. Kapow! Goodnight!
Good Health! And as the flatulence and eructations die,
                     so I
                the macho-man
    (but call me gravity) implode the can.

               Across the aisle
             the white dwarfs pile,
 each one a star before it lost its equilibrium.

Mine, I lost in some space-time continuum
of throwing up, where were no drinking comrades of my own,
until I found myself sat here on this damned train, alone -
and wished that Einstein and his crew had done the same,
for then perhaps we’d have a different game.
            E = mc2? Small beer:
he might have changed his theories sitting here;
for space, as I perceive it now is this damned track
stretched out before and stretched out going back.

And speaking of small beer, it’s polarized
my mind, and I have been exceedingly surprised 
to learn the natures of this tunnel and the train,
how nothing matches any picture in my brain;
how tunnels rumble when trains come,
and how to greater rumbles from the gut, we do succumb;
how space is curved; how absolute time disappears
as seconds passing on my watch, on station clocks take years;
how space itself becomes surreal -
an endless tyre on time’s vast wheel -
and life an endless round, a never-ending meal.

The train winds on through spools of black spaghetti
to pools of twilight consciousness: another meal with Hetty;
those boulevards under snow, the drinks we had with Caroline -
those were not stations down a line,
not boarding or alighting points, just Alka Seltzers in a jar.
Stirred, spinning, spreading fizziness and influence far,
they coloured all… So, where did that dumb image spring from? Shit!
I haven’t understood this Circle Line a bit!
                                *
A response to Jingle Poetry's call for something on Food, Drink and Indulgence.