The Bus

We sometimes take the bus just for the ride!

There was no need
I was not going anywhere
I did not need to be anywhere
It was just an impulse

There was an empty road
An empty seat
So I took it
It was there

There were many seats
Offering similar views
Of similar places
But I sat near the window

I could see and be seen
The window of life
Capturing the movement
Of the day

I was thrown about
Knocked around
I bounced up and down
As we raced to our destination

The destination was not important
But to arrive was
Arrival meant something
I was travelling again

The bus emptied
The city's seeds flushed
Through the doors
And dripped into a waiting life

I sat on a warmed seat
And wondered
Should I take another bus
Or just stay on this one

This bus I knew the route
I had travelled its routine
And witnessed its contents
And knew what to expect

And I stayed
On my warm seat
With no timetable
And only the excitement of routine

The umbrella would not open

It was a grey day
An English grey
Smudged and smeared
Blacks and whites
Scythed the skies
And mottled shades of
Dark and light
Sank into the horizon
And lay in wait
For the morrow

The night ejected the grey
Like a smoker's breakfast smoke
And street lights haze
Made angels appear
And the floating whites
Of car headlights oft dazzled
And splattered the pavement
Spotlighting dog shit drying
As moonlight spat

And the spits became splodges
And hair dampened
Dripping over my face
Smudging mascara
And revealing a nocturnal warrior
Intent on being dry
But revelling in the damp
The umbrella snapped into action
But would not open

A broken umbrella
Like an unfulfilled life
Hanging around in useless anticipation
For something, but inert
And the rain only deepens
The frustration
Of getting wetter
But carrying a weapon
Of the past

Windows

Windows

What window are you?
Do you hide those looking in?
Or those looking out?

Many people obscure,
They erect blinds
And curtains are drawn

However, you can see through me
I am tainted and torn
But continue to darken the light

I create shadows
That men hide in
And where I'm hiding now

The window was opened
And now it's shut
The paintwork making a seal

Leaves

Autumn Leaves

Yellow and browns, the autumn outfit
Some want to sparkle
And throw on the red dress
The very red dress
The dress that means I want action
But most settle for brown and yellowish shades

None remain blemish free
But most contain the stains of a summer party
Some cling to the past like a leech
Even October winds cannot induce a fall
They wave defiantly above the carpet of friends
Who once created summer shade
And a respite from August heat

But like all, they will fall
As winter's chill knocks and grey skies plough the heavens
The last leaf falls, dropping like a tired child's eyelids
After an exciting day
But already life is stirring within the sturdy trunk
The life blood of tomorrow's leaves stir
Slightly, awaiting spring and a new passage of time
A passage of time when the leaves of Fall
Are quickly forgotten
And all looks forward to the blossom and the buds

It groans like an old Ford

There's a shadow that hovers across my breasts
It is sometimes a hand shape or sometimes a tongue
Often a cock

At these times I listen to the sounds of my vagina
It groans and moans like a retired soldier
Eager but reluctant to go into battle again

My cunt seems keen to face the bayonets
The muscular swords
The long spears of joy

Sometimes my lips purse with
Welcoming thoughts
Of a battlefield of lust

A battlefield of sweat and passion
The smell of sex on white sheets
And the dotted stains of cum shots

My ears are pricked
By the sound of my sobs and sighs
Floating out into the night sky

My legs open to embrace
And to inflate
And to menace my memories

Little House On The Prairie

There was a little house
On the Prairie
Well, not really prairie and not little
Somewhere between Ostia Antica
And Casal Palocco

It was cowboy country
A mish mash of good
And the bad
And sometimes the ugly
But definitely cowboy

Men played shotgun
With me on a regular basis
Some shot pistols, others rifles
But they liked to shoot
And you could find their bullets everwhere

I'm not sure if I was a cowgirl
Sometimes cowgirl positions
But often not
Men often imagine unorthodox things
Which are not always easy to do

Men rode into town on their stallion
Sometimes brown or black but often white
Colour never changed the gallop
Or the things that took place
There is no prejudice in a whores bed

But after the ride we sat by the campfire
And talked, and more
Often the talk was of loved ones
Of which I was not one
But they loved my cunt

They loved my cunt and ass because
They were always available
At a price
And men like that
They are not patient

I don't live on the little prairie
Any longer
My cowboy days are over
Yet I still get ridden
At my 'bidden'

But the wild and wonderful west
Is now just a memory
The dust lays fast
And I have cobwebs
Around my cunt

The road with no crossroads

On the left is a large, rectangular field
Yellowing under the hot,midday sun
No shade, just torrid, blazing heat
The only life, is insect life
And it seems, for many of these,
It is too hot

 It is far too hot, hot on your feet hot
Flies rush to your lips and eyes
To capture saliva and moisture
And anything the body lets out
They are crazy with heat
And ignore the swipes of a sweaty hand

The flies, like me, are on a mission
They like me are maddened and frustrated
My salty, eyes cast mistily
To the right and scans another field
It is a multitude of browns and conveys barren
Even the weeds have withered

The brown field appears bereft of life
Without redemption
It awaits the rain, like we all do
To cool and wash away the
results of the heat
But everything seems dead

The rain, it is hoped, will nourish the soil
But what is there to be nourished?
Is it possible that life can survive this?
Can life emerge from the dust?
Can the land become green and lush?
And productive?

And in front, behind a windscreen of dead flies and gnats
A long, long road
Not winding at all
Straight but with gradients
Ups and downs
But the overall image is down

Down to the horizon
Where there isn't much
To talk about
Other than down
Other than road
That is long and straight

The road is without crossroads
Without intersections
Without junctions
There is no official way off this road
But many have tried
Tyre marks edge the side of the tarmac


The tarmac is sticky
Black puddles, inky splodges
Mingled with dust
Tracks appear to go nowhere
And maybe I like nowhere
Maybe it is a better place to go