Stop Of A Bus
I
Am
at a bus
stop,
a
smelly rickety
and
dieing stop
of a
bus
(probably
cum
and shit
infested).
Come And Sit
And Fester:
"at this rickety Stop Of a Bus," the ad says.
Invest
Now! Call the number transmit-bacteria-inter-rectal-discharge
at
preventing-according-impending-burning.
(Have you read the good book
God gave the gays salivation
Before it's too late
Buy now
It could go up your pooper
but wait there's more)
The fact is
I came somehow
and
I sat and
"Shit! For-forty-
fucking-minutes"
I have waited.
Shhhhhuushhh.
Language.
A child
a decade
behind
you
hums beside you, 'A' hole.
Refrain from English.
However,
he still kicks his two feet
twice, three times even,
midair.
The child
hadn't
heard me.
Good,
I am still
The Good Guy.
I look at
the Clock
standing
in the middle
of the road.
"For forty four fucking
minutes, you fuck!"
it croaked.
I turn to
Decade Child.
"Is your mother
coming back?"
He keeps kicking
his feet,
mid air.
Kick kick
Kick kick kick
Kick kick
Kick tr~~~~~~~~
Kick, kick,
little
prick!
A parade of minutes march
silently.
I stand up.
But don't salute
remember your flag
goes the other way 'round
like so.
"Where do you think you're going?"
"I'm looking for another bus
stop."
"I'm coming with."
"Don't--you might get lost
and your mother won't be able
to find you," you prick.
"She's lost," child says.
"No, go back,
it's easier to find
you that way,
go back, while
the bus stop is
still visible, go back,
look
there are mirages and shit,
your mother."
I go back to the bus stop.
I sit
brush the sand off my boots
shake the sand out of them
and I wipe my chin.
The prick!
"Mom is fucking somewhere and
mom knows wherever bus stop I'm at
this is how we survive
she thinks differently but
that is
how the real world works
If she's not fucking somewhere
we starve
that is why she
has to be fucking somewhere.
This,
life
had
told me--
hey, you,
what is Gonorrhea?"
He returns to humming.
Decadent child!
I pop a soda
from the vend
but threw the can
filled with
water.
May be
he’d
want, some.
I look
at the kid.
Again.
Then
I thought
this
sob
will
one day
be
the world's
greatest writer
people’ll tolerate.
The Clock croaks,
"For forty three fucking
minutes,
you fuck!"