Saturday, 1 February 2014

Bus note 88

Empty boats
in Icknield Port
        and then
        a lump of church.
Hair branches scratch.
        the wet rot musk cloud sings.
Eyes are fucked
with caffeine shots.
        Traffic pulse desecrates and stutters.
Bare will's thinned.
        How heavy are my hands?


  1. Seen from the POV of the bus, life does seem one long annoyance.

    I don't mind so much though, because the routine annoyance of being aboard and however slowly getting toward your destination is at least preferable to one thing: the waiting three-quarters of an hour lame and halt in the cold dark for the bus that doesn't come.

    (Bob Marley sang of waiting in vain for your love, but the buses we have here have so far been loved only by the transit company official who went to Belgium, bought vasts fleets of them at up to $8 m apiece, thus securing federal grants for fuel cell emission technology that doesn't work... and then leaving the position amid questions as to where the money went.)

  2. Thank you, Red, Jonathan and Tom.

    Relentless rain has made travelling a fair bit bleak this last month gone. Still, as you say, at least the bloody things arrive.

  3. I'm at the end of this comment line
    But your poem arrived--

    Everything's fine.

  4. You're always welcome, Vassilis.