Bus note 90

        Whispering static
and stopped rain.
        That one in the bushes
        with the coffee again
(his pretend nature corner
traffic smeared).
        One wall left;
        brick dust cumuli.
White of Birch,
white, sick
and nearly beaming

Bus note 89

Wind flattens rental sign and
        fucks gait and pace.
Unhooks blue tarpaulin      
        over erratic lightshow
        of nip and tuck place.
Stink of skunk:
remainderer.
        Pretty girl goes on:
        "Did he think she was on her own?
        Should we like kill her or something?"
Trees pulled up and out
like some idiot joke;
        an almost subject work.

Morning

Dulled fake slate

Split lip inks up

Sky wash with bruises

A heavy necklace
of oughts

Terraceds squaring
bled rural traces

We have to call it
a drama today

Bus note 88

Empty boats
in Icknield Port
        and then
        a lump of church.
Hair branches scratch.
        "Oh!",
        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?