poetry

the lady on the bus

fragile and foetal
death picks up the chaos
she cannot collect

her eyes hide
in the slow smoke

her hair lies between
rules and regret

a brown umbrella
decorates her day

a white hat
holds the echoes
in her speech

her son died today
in dank ditches
where spoons suffocate

eyes like a soldier
a voice so tender
it narrates the
fingers of smoke

 

PhilosopherPoet

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poetry

steamy coffin

i drag myself
onto the bus
carry my bag
like a
wet newspaper

small kids
old men
drooping women
chortling girls
jostle through
the rain
into this
beast

rain
drips off men
like the
tears of a city
still lost
in the fog
drowned in
soft headlines
flaccid cigarettes
cheap beer
long nights
burnt hours

the people
stand like
21st
century cattle
faces follow
the pulse
of a smartphone
hands hold
slim slabs
of technology
buzzing into
the back of
their retinas

updates exhale
tweets yammer
eyes ignite
and
i sit in
aftermath

bodies blend
into bags
coughs clog
the heavy air
and then
the
bus speaker shrieks

i am at
the last stop
everyone is
still swiping
slithers of news
but no one
has
opened
a window

 

PhilosopherPoet

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