Thoughts From The Bus

More bad poetry, specifically for you, yu lucky devils! I want to spend more time on these little things, maybe make them into actual poems rather than hurried scribbles but, y’know; working life sucks all active creativity out of  person and, instead, I must make do with the passive aggressive kind of literature.

I’m really very tired at the moment.

I wrote this maybe an hour ago, whilst waiting for and then on, the bus ride home.

Despite my speeches and my promises,
I’m already too old to die young.
Thought this is only my 21st winter,
I can’t remember the summers.

The cold has seeped into my skin,
though I’m by a radiator, sweating the chill away,
wrapped in a suit and a hoodie and a dressing gown,
I think my bones have frozen.

I hear them crack when I move my pen;
feel them stab, impudent, into my muscle.
I think it’s good that it hurts to write.
I think that it should do.

It might stave away the pseudonyms,
Like Steele, Kliff,
who think that words are there as an appeal to baser instincts.
The modern writer has little to say,
and speaks merely to fill the void,
left behind by thought and liberty.

The void does not need,
and nor does it want, to be filled.

I have to move empty packets,
crisps and paracetemol,
to find a seat on this empty bus, with fierce expression
to pretend that I know what it means,
to be a man.

Fluorescent green plant pots;
solitary islands running between these lanes,
and a music store in my memory,
sold for discount fabrics and the dullest of conversations.

The river doesn’t glitter, but it oozes light,
reflected; sickly yellow illumination
Which show where Cleopatra lies.

Foyers of cars, ranked and unwashed like a Mongol Horde,
a cyclist boasting lycra and an oversized bulge, stuffed,
bloated on the agony of my sight.

A tattoo parlour, open to the night,
squats besides an Italian. I think
I recognise the Artist;

I don’t.

Frank tells me how I can get better,
though my conscience argues;
how can I believe either of them?
I could have been anyone, but fate made me;
me.

How can anyone live,
With the results of a die they never cast?

Ivory, stained with unfair blood, blackened
lost dreams and failures,
combining in the murky waters of possibility,
and Wigan Pier.

I think they weighted the dice,
we did,
but I could’ve been a poet; a pale silhouette.

Instead I am Braine’s opponent,
the man clawing for the top where,
they tell me,
there is room.

Thanks for reading guys, I appreciate it.

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