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Click hereNight bus
snaking suburbia,
with the inner city leftovers
heading for a hung over
sunday morning.
"Ya'know it's weird..."
A kazoo whine,
like a sentient duck,
two seats behind.
"...how it goes,
ya'know,
with hands."
2 am tipsy,
but eloquent enough
to pass this wisdom on
to his grinning mute friend,
while I try to filter out
the babble.
I focus but in vain
on a murderous migraine.
"I'm a southpaw ya'know..."
Oh really? Shut up.
"...write with it, type, paint, pick stuff."
So you have an opposable thumb after all?
Do parrots have those really?
Shutupshutup...
"But ya'know..."
Shut up, shut...oh I give up.
All right! Spill it, spit out!
"...I finger pussies with the right,
and jack off too,
ya'know."
Bus stop
closing in,
humming down,
hissing doors.
I descend to asphalt,
an amused smile
spreading.
Because I realise
...ya'know...
me too.
Literally, actually. It's been a while since I've burst out laughing while reading. Thanks for that. :)
(thermometer left at default and does not reflect my vote)
Unless you have something clever to say...! This poem perfectly recapitulates the night.
...sometimes you remind me that I need to "shit out my head". I often suffer Beat poet flashbacks, reading your stuff.
"the inner city leftovers
heading for a hung over
sunday morning"