Bus Time

Bus Time.
Thoughts tick,
  Pen clicks,
    Time sticks.
Bus Time.

Bus time:
Phone out.
  Cell-shouter,
    Smelly pouter.
Bus time.

Bus time.
Co-eds preening,
  Disturbed keening,
    Cars careening.
Bus time.

Bus Time -
bell rings,
child clings,
drops things.
Bus time.

(It's odd, I know
It should be so, but
Poems help the anger go.)

time

Most unappreciated gift, spend
pound-foolishly, profligate
on Not To Be Missed TV, witty
word-swords crossed with imagined opponents,
puttering, tidying, erranding for all we are worth,
making ready for when there's
more time.

perfect bus teeth

Cancer  ads with perfect smiles, banks
Luring with colourful infographics and charts,
Superb, sophisticated and simple typography
Elegantly leering over the frowsy
Grocery-carting lower classes.
The masses with earflap hats, strapped-on toddlers,
Earbuds and ball caps, stolid faces,
Bundled in brown and black and gray.
Stoic under the smug wordplay.

Feeders

Glutted on the ephemeral morsel of aesthetics.
I crave experience's savoury meat.

Fill my soul with the real
Gorge me with substance
Let me sup on the tangible for
I starve.

Today I am a hound

Today I am a hound.
Rich beany bitter coffee
Ozone-burnt air computer fan
Toast.

Exhaust, burning dust, warm car
I can't drive if I hang my head out the window.

Sweater rubs strangely on my hackles as
Man in next car leers.
Growl.

Today I am a hound.
Eucalyptus hand cream stops by to sniff out
Last night's drama.

Air conditioning meeting room,
Sweaty meaty hands strikes submissive with Brylcreem.
Howl.

Leashed to my cubicle. Feign work through
Open-eyed nap. Internet. Squirrel!

Released! Car bounds happily home.
Yoga mat wriggle. Smokey incense tickles.

Today I am a hound. Fed. Petted. Rest.

Opal Dance

It's an opal dance,
A milky flailing of limbs
A rocky place I skip across

Red leaves black the sun but
I burn and whirl.
Velvet slime caresses wrist
This moment is mine.

And you, in your hard garnet orbit,
Drift away through obsidian space

Savage, or Boredom of a Saturday Afternoon

As my teeth grind, I long to lunge
Rip the throat out of today
Feel its blood warm on my face,
Frenzy in my limbs.

I want to fly, not lazily aloft on breezes,
Beating wings into a downdraft off a
Volcanic cliff, pursuing the darting promise of prey
Diving into the hard air, feathers rippling,
Savage.

I want to man the cannon,
Plunge on smashing waves towards
The placid pleasure craft, smash it,
Splinter the hull and suck the treasure
From its marrow.

I snarl at the sun, enfeebled by lethargy that captures
Only my body.
My spirit broods, paces,
Savage.