Bloody Buses

The air was heavy
fat and foul
with sweat a kind of fear
and then the smallest
then the young ones
spat your sweat
You hold your breath

Our sun grows hotter
ground alive
A mass of bodies scattered
This was the end
we knew it true
the first rain landing spattered.

Redness Goldness
ran in runs
soaking tree flooding parks
drowning drains
flowing on
No you can’t stop
There is no one to
Hold these bloody beasts
from what they’re
built to do

The great Suffolk train ride

A residual stink
That acrid jarring of smells
Grating receptors and flashing memories
Of narrow escapes
Close shaves
The clawing tendrils of inertia
Rancid in manner
I squeeze my eyes tight, grin
Embracing this funk of what
Might have been.

We pull through Manningtree
Wondering the ghosts haunting
It’s industrial might
Desolate journeying through
Time’s very decay
In this error of modernisation
Thirty years dilapidation
The dead in the Dedham Vale

How well your dark flocks of sheep
Crowd your secret
As far removed from clouds
As your dark wet brickwork alleyways
And menacing piping
Anyone claiming this outpost of progress
Will need time and
Wealth to mobilise your dunes
Of crumbling rubble
Scrape habitable
Your vast concrete footprints
Me and my passenger friends
Flee North, hammering the short stretch
Of track left ‘train-friendly’
This far East

I love speed
Trees wave furiously
Frozen in streaks
Passing this great machine
We tear past bikers and dog walkers
The fluorescent smear of joggers,
Of heath-jumpers, bowl by the window
As a bright feeble January sun
Sweeps through the innards of our carriage
Painting faces and seats
In chilling reds and oranges
Until the next clutch of housing or industrial estates
Breaks those marvellous red beams

Inevitably someone impresses the brake
A forest of pylons
So gantry’s encase this slow snake.

In The Middle of the Night

In the mid-
dull of the night
I lay
and listen to the rain
In this hot room
the sounds of splash
draw out my
slightly sighs again
Were you not here so
short-a-time-ago to
sweat with mine
The ticks
tock by
so bluh
dee slow
hammer out
such emp
tea time
Through this din of rain
and thunderous clocks
my thoughts
collect on you
I’m sure though
slow these days
will fly and
bring me close
in time to you

Part 21 (Tracking Tale)

Following on from yesterday, this series of poems: Played at a different speed, the subjects covered by the 10 are humdrum, as they attempt to spell out a beat of the activity. This is Part 21 (It’s about listening on a train).

Sun out with the wind
(an awesome summer wind)
with a warming sun
too clean,
crisp
entrancement
warms this mind.
Waiting,
sitting,
standing
till a whirring
speeding…
slowing: Churning papers,
scaring mutts,
rolling cigarette-butts
until
they’ve filled up all the ruts
by all the waiters
and the sitters,
standing,
boarding,
closing,
moving!
There’s the clicking and commotion
of mechanic tongues in motion.
Moving.
Then
it’s our seat
– our booked seat –
and surcharge paid to sit seat.
Slowed down then stopped.
Beat.
Machine’s not saving booked seats.
And off again, yet,
still not sitting seat!
Take ours,
use ours…
Now sat
we’ve stopped again seat.
Still –
stand –
leave –
and empty, empty, empty,
now vacant seat;
their saved seat;
they’re gone.

Tomorrow: Part 22