Bus Ride In December.

I wrote this poem very early on hung-over morning on my bus to work. So please forgive my apparently inability to manage beats or rhymes. I was very tired :).

Bus ride in December.

Lonesome gray sea bird clinging on

To mid morning gray wind,

Bus pulls up full of old timers,

One young man at the rear,

His faux cupid face crying out

Starving infant demands.

H.M.P carriage way turn in,

A bell rings but the doors won't budge,

Now gravity is golden king

In groaning metal dawn,

Naive Brian Jones internal

Monologue, moron hope.

Chapel shows times for Holy Mass,

Every one just stares out,

The tires struggle forth

Onto fluorescent high street where

Big-a*s feisty Angels strut to

The beat of the morning's bop.

Ageless England-of-the-morning,

Who squared my crooked teeth,

Old man collapses outside pub

That's watching football match

On T.V, I look at our faces

Gazing blinkered out-out,

Out onto the bop blue morning,

In early December's frosty realization.

Grave faced and hopeless In the purifying

Dawn, I am half asleep on plastic seat, I am

Along for the ride so that I remember

This morning bus ride in early December.

RAB. 2011.

Author's Note

Have mercy.