the bus ride

there are times while riding on the bus

the seat is nothing but the pox doctors jockstrap,

and life can only get worse, and why should I complain

nobody is worse than me, through the messed up city

suburb after suburb stopping at every planet to pick up

every alien from fat bum cracks to analysed hair do’s

back wheels hitting the curb leaving a black mark,

a black-eyed curb king-hit on the blind side,

past used car lots advertising the price of their soul.

misses finds you went under her radar with the security girl.

dogs biting dust hermits, his supermarket trollies spilt

in the pus emptying gutters, the serum in a city annoyed with itself.