Saturday, 1 June 2013

Bus note 56

Sour laugh for phone.
        "You get me?"
         again and again.
Can't look through
the misted up windows.
Misanthropy spasm.
        Traffic's relentless
        shut world
        poison music
won't make an outside
gather up and show.


  1. Not being able to look through the misted up windows, all that's left is what's going on inside (or are we outside? could be either), and the sense that, yes, we are moving. Something is moving, at least. Us, or the traffic, or us in the traffic. Moving, but then why is there this strong feeling of "being trapped in"?

  2. Curiously, this brings back what might almost be called, with no more than a smidgeon of exaggeration, a romantic memory. Granted it was twenty years ago, but her saying things ten thousand times, as relentlessly reiterative as it then seemed, now looms up in rosy-coloured hindsight as the best ten thousand moments we had together.

    Get Me

    Ooh that Tracey Thorn, gap toothed, anorexic girl of ten thousand furniture store dreams!

  3. Nice, Duncan; the reference to misted up windows reminds me of how I always doodled on them until I could make out what was outside.

  4. Thank you, All


    It usually depends on the end of the journey, but there are times when claustrophobia sets in. The pressure coming from one half of a bellowed conversation can do a fair bit of damage.


    That voice. If it had been Tracey on the phone this would have been a very different poem.


    I still do from time to time. I like the way the pictures go wobbly with each corner turned.

  5. Dunno about that mobile phone reactive pressure issue, except to say, in the more general sense in which all particular psycho-societal instances collide to form the sort of dysfunctional phalanx that passes for life now, comme on dit, I think I feel you, brother.

  6. Now there's the sound of a living soul.