Wednesday, 7 September 2011

Bastard Bus Broke Down

It began with a sigh
then a shudder and finally a delicate cough
and the audible sound of tires squelching through shit.
The bus had broken down.
An easy silence climbed out of the engine,
slithering between the oil slick pipes
and settling on the passengers,
who had nothing to say to each other.
A baby started to cry,
it was a bald baby with a bald mother.
I felt a little bit sick and almost wished
the pale flopping breast she used to stem the squalling
could have been hairy, just to balance things out.
I turned away from them, I needed to phone work
"The bastard bus has broken down."
[a pause]
"That conflicts with the needs of the business."
Accusing and harsh, I can almost smell her cigarette smoke
curling down the line to choke me.
"I don't know how to fix the bus."
"The needs of the business haven't got time for buses."
Smug and self-assured, I want to cry.
"I'll be there as soon as I can."
I hang up and notice the bus driver is sweating,
the poor man!
He is humiliated, his chariot is crippled.
It is like a failed erection for him and each passenger,
is a cruel and impatient mistress, fingering herself and waiting,
Waiting for him to fix it.
He pulls and stomps at its mechanisms
and where I am sat above the rear-left wheel
my seat vibrates desperately.
The bus and its driver are trying so hard to please us
I become vaguely aroused and clench my buttocks on the seat.
It groans and heaves, my teeth rattle together,
this bus means business!
Bastard business for a bastard broken bus!
The driver is still sweating, slicking back his hair.
The bald baby burps up sick over its chin.
Its bald mother coos sweetly.
The engine finally, triumphantly ejaculates a puff of smoke
and roars to life.
Our exhausted driver collapses back into his seat.
We're on our way again.

Women are from Venus

I have some money.
A little, never a lot. Seldom enough.
I work for my money, long hours.
I spend it mostly on strong coffee, fruity wine,
t-shirts, books and medicine.
Sometimes I buy food or books for my lover.
"You just want to spend money don't you?"
A small, understanding smile.
"No, not really."
      I just haven't been shown how else to spend my time.

Sales Assistant

A busy hive formed of elegant brick,
with chewing gum riddled carpets
and empty coffee cups
       and juice bottles
discarded around over-flowing plastic swamps of waste,
       and excited children screaming for their dues
- these miniature beings understand it as their birth right!
And impatient bread winners loiter, hefting so much more than bread
 in bags and boxes of all sizes and colours
and bearded clerks in un-ironed shirts scowl,
and self-important supervisors scurry
       (jealously guarding their extra fifty-seven pence an hour)
and there are lost bags and jewellery
       and greedy parking meters
              and smiling faces of those who have spent
                     and money! So much money!
Always money. Do they smell it? Do they even see it?
Do you need any help at all?
Did you find everything you were looking for today?
Can I help you?
Can you help me?
Somebody, please. Fucking help me.


A purple blotch upon my throat,
from lips that teased blood
to kiss the skin
as stubble rasped against naked flesh,
causing breasts to swell and blush.
In fluorescent light
I trace it now,
reflected back at me
from silver-white tiles
and though a blemish is irredeemable
of merit in its own right,
none-the-less I smile and stroke
my temporary tattoo.
My gentle reminder of a moment spent in love.
This is a moment.
A speck of time amongst the multitudes.
It has no limits nor boundaries,
It is most likely nothing.
It could be a beginning.
Right now we cannot know what this moment is for,
by the time we realise
it will be gone.
An orgasm of time,
beautiful and fleeting,
all the sweeter for its brevity.
Maybe if you are lucky,
through eyes of pale jade,
you will see its formation,
    you will track its progress,
            you will witness its close.
                  Open yourself to it.