Bus 134
the nighttime economy
where dick-pics are currency,
suggests to me we need
to bring back lobotomy,
Calvin Klien clones
and testosterone goons
don’t mix
134 Bus Arrives 1:42am
there’s too many ‘Brads’
kicking up a fuss
on the top deck
of the night bus,
you can spot the
jar-head haircuts
from a mile off,
well, that’s me fucked,
I look like a young Bob Dylan
in a world full of Bob Vylans,
fake gangsters,
‘two bob’ rappers,
rich kids ransacking
the fried chicken shop,
faces buried in
their takeaway box,
jostling, jiving
eyeing up the easy meat
as they make their
way home to easy street,
Mummy’s left the key
under the doormat
but we ain’t quite there yet
and nobody needs
to know that
Holloway Road 1:56am
the bus, it stops on
Holloway road,
the few pubs I know
are about to close,
all but one, it’s a
real shitty dive
it’s touch and go if
you’ll get out alive,
I’ll take my chances,
the place is mobbed
with gyrating goths
slow dancing with
straightedge mods
I hate Britpop,
and The Cure do
nothing for me,
I was straight
out the door
hopping back
on the 134
134 Bus Arrives 3:45am
the goons had left,
the jar-heads gone,
until tomorrow night’s
escapades
when they
rush the streets
desperate to get laid,
this ain’t no
coming of age ritual
or some rite of passage,
this is one upmanship,
it’s all about
dipping your wick
as much as possible,
inflicting
debilitating
emotional damage
whilst remaining
unaccountable,
objectifying
young woman and girls,
keeping tally of all
the back alleys you
“fucked her up the wall”,
this caveman mentally
makes me sick,
as the 134 passes
under
suicide bridge,
the Kafka-esch
streetlamps serve
as spotlights,
it’s a beautiful location
tainted by those
who chose to end
their life,
at home asleep,
my wife waits for me,
she loves me
she loves me not
she loves me
almost certainly,
we live in a squat
without a penny
to our name
but that’s ok
things will change
they always do
5am I Get Into Bed
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