Bus Depot Transit Lounge

Memories of the construction site

lunch break fist fight

beneath the feet of the adventurers

in the shopping complex

at the disembarking point of the escalator.

Telephone poles are the city’s trees.

We must wait

until the clones are full grown.

Stop Press:

'Man Grows Mustache on Back

After Eating Daphnes for a Month in the Bath!'

Winter heating,

kaleidoscopic bubble sprawl,

cinnamon vapour, home cooked

bread dart board.

You’re missing nothing.

Having just gone to sleep

after an attack on site

he was nabbed and I died

and was taken to prison

where nothing happened.

As an academic member of staff

he impersonated a prison guard,

triggering a civil action.

The last exit

was a mortal condition.

His mother had been a pilot

in World War Two,

called beyond conscience.

I had the wrong man.

He was never there

so we just sat there and watched.

The shadows are all wrong.

This was written on the side of a cigarette.

According to the journals

no man had ever had a hair cut

of that type.

But Monday never came,

a fitting way to end

never looking in the eyes.

Gum ball machine rain drops

at the central city cross roads

looking for an exit

way to get out

without ever being there

at any time

ever.

The idea

of a sleeper.