I enjoy long bus journeys in the night, I enjoy rattling along through parts of the mysterious city I do not know well. To spy the shops and the people there. To hear the jocund merriment outside the dusty glass and regurgitated transport metal that trundles its route ever so persistently. With kebab shops blazing, men heckling from across the dark and wet road, beeping eyes and staring headlights of this maelstrom carnival where I find my mind this night. The tired hiss as the doors swish apart, strange old men alight in quiet fits of apprehension; not upon the maroon sands of Juno or sword do they pour out wastefully, but onto the High Street of our modern metropolis. I watch them pass away as the doors gush tight and shut as the bus growls its smoky way fretting beside small seemingly inflatable cars with sharp haired girl's gaggling cheerfully to their friends at traffic lights, near the junction of everywhere. As I sit gracelessly, fidget and fear not quite thundering along the hectic convoy avenues of grind, exhaust and maddening thoughtless decibels I recall lyrics from my favourite songs.
"Getting crazy on the waltzers but its life that I choose
The night is a dire horrible beauty, almost carefree yet sadly, ever so sadly dwindling into eclectic poses and robust sexual hilarity. I remember so very little in those times when it would serve me well, aid me to avoid some random repeating of a terrible error; and how clear and scented those memories come when I am least capable and most likely to crumble under their chastising weight.
I sat rather merrily upon the floor, my back against the wall. Friends came and went, complaining bitterly about the cold, the lack of money the unwholesome turgid routine of being a waiter without. I am glad to be a waiter, to wake and be ignored and ant fashion build and assemble those things that the careless holiday maker picks at and requests. The solemnity of no hope gives to me a sense of crime and a feeling of punishment, I am shy Raskolnikov of the company apron, I am Werther of the tea and jam scone Sunday rush. Ralph turns to me in earnest Dutch South African beauy.
-This tarn is very complix, its people are very rood, I can not see Namibia for seex howl month, Peeta. Now you see my sad face ev'ry dae!
-It is a shame Ralph, a damn shame!
I live in a harmless, charm free state, of compliant half stupidity and garrulous pay days; my room is small and neat, I have a book shelf with too many books and a guitar that loves me for her name sake. Suddenly Allen enters in swift middle aged thin glasses; he smiles his mad loveable grin and beckons me to follow. Mysterious Allen, a handyman philosopher, as troubled and as gentle as a kindly thought to a struggling goose upon the lake side dreary, dour faced fathers in half attempts to drown their snotty nosed sons and daughters. I follow at a merry canter, chatting amiably as we descend the stiff necked stair case, from the staff quarters in the roof spaces, through the warren of décor and aerosol corridors to the waiting room. I stand glad and alone as Allen closes the door behind me, and in that moment I should have fled tearing my hair out; if only I had known what truly giggled and dallied behind the thick window curtains, I should have become phantom. Suddenly two eager old friends appear, cheerful and rascal like in the semi gloom of a one lamp room. I smile and embrace them with zeal and fear a unison of Norse looking wild men, all hair and stubborn glee; and from them I spy there still unspoken and un named; a girl alone,
"In a screaming ring of faces I seen her standing in the light
She had a ticket for the race just like me she was a victim of the night
She with quick feet hop close together, and denim jeans that make her hips grab my eyes and have the linger, a black woolly jacket with red fringes on the collar, I remember her forehead birthmark that I thought so immediately beautiful and the smile, with almost lip curling command, I grin my friendly "long time no see grin and behave as normal, when I glance too eagerly now, smiling sweetly; and of all the sweet things that become sour she I fear stood as queen incarnate, un moveable delicate beauty, would she ever be so ill-fated to smile at me, we abandon the spiritless hotel night and drive into a fragile history. If I had throttled all three there and then I should be someplace farer today.
Suddenly the bus halts and three 'we own the world' faced youths clamber aboard, surly and sharp to the Jamaican bus driver, he ignores and gives change, tired man of the tired world. They gaggle and strut drunken ferret fashion to the rear, to sit and jump in proud ape countenance.
"Sing about the sixblade sing about the switchback and a torture tattoo
I peer happily out into the feral neon short skirts, embittered factory drones and retail outlet girls, swooping globule fashion into the loins of shaven slab stone rotten never lion men. I wonder at the mystery and the night pounces on me, causing all manner of doubt and ridicule. My seat becomes harsh and unsettling, the ferrets scramble forward, trying to catch my nonchalant eye; I peer still out into the night that calls them, off they fall glancing and growling into the damply trodden fag end circus that bore them. I know myself and I could ache like this for that curtain face so long, I feel my cold feverish tremble heart and the timbre; the refreshing of machine grease and grime, the grinding along the too shrill road. I scratch my knee and peer at my shoes; I shuffle the fluff from my trousers and peer about me. The cold intrusive glare of light and I quite satiated, oft amused and ever peering. I turn my mind hither and thither, from a box of cheese biscuits and stale homemade mulberry wine; with friends a chill wan night of my youth, gladly muttering teeth chattering thrill upon the high places of Lancashire,
"And girl it looks so pretty to me just like it always did
Like the spanish city to me when we where kids
With the stout electric redoubt for cover twinkling of those lights way back, way back then is the same as those that frighten me upon the bus. With my stoic Jamaican companion. I recall a night of sweaty bed sheets and sudden awake coughing, but not mine. I am in dread and so crawl quietly to the bedroom door, I can hear the painful agonised confusion, as she mutters what could be a prayer to God himself, the wheezing pain sobs of that filthy women startle me into hiding, I crawl ghost like into the heating cupboard, amongst mother scented bath robes and towels, with the guts and lungs of the heating system popping and fizzing behind me; I hear that cry again, and the shattering stomach throws of her prayer; yes it is to god she calls and not I, to god she whines and cries, with those too questioning eyes. I cover my ears and urinate into my bed shorts.
-Peter, help ' oh gods Peter wake up (Desperate unforgivable plea), please hold me!
I could swiftly grab a cup from the bathroom and bludgeon that sound devilishly to death, I could grab a heavy thing from the tool shed and bash the oily flesh from its skull, I could scratch out my skin and bite into the steaming copper innards of the too quiet system heater. I wait until the dark night cries fade to knowing dozing, her son but a breathe away and she chill of bone crippled and diseased has to spend the night alone, in sobs and begging; cruel hearted aches, I am almost glad to hear that sleepy snoring sound. I am glad not to see tha pale cadaverous face asking questions unanswerable, I sleep beside the large covered cistern, a warm new womb. For even Jesus begged the father, his father looked the other way, I behave as a miniature god. I am urine stained Judas without kiss or crime.
Suddenly I rub my cheek swift old fashion and peer wild eyed as a couple enter, holding and tickling, some party about to happen they talk fine words to each other. She has told her parents about him, and they are weekend soon arrivals, nervous young man grins fadelessly, delighted apparently to meet them. I know your fear young man thinks I watching as she clutches at his heart and he fondles her arse.
And I been riding on a ghost train where the cars they scream and slam
And I dont know Ill be tonight but Id always tell you where I am
The soundtrack that keeps the bus running, that keeps the night appealing, I enjoy long bus journeys at night, to go and return; you can't berate the deamon that sits in your lap, no sir. A one ticket carnival ride about the town that abhors itself, I could sleep soundly knowing I know remember nothing feel nothing, I brush my cold arm over my eyes and I sit breathing drunkard heavy! I press the bell and stand to attention, I squeeze the nib of my nose with my fingers, I shudder with constrained remoarse, tight chested wrath. I sigh so loudly the couple glance at me, I glance back and they smile softly, pitiful ingratiating horrors, I am fierce eyed, they should fear me but they merely tilt their heads in a parody of Christian forgivers. I turn abruptly and stagger out into the welcoming old time jungle, gone!
