Why are there always little notes on the backsides of my bus tickets?
Which pub do you go to normally, like, your regular? Yeah? I should try it one day. Well, night. You know, have to earn a crust. Tell me about it mate; bloody rat race. I’d do soomething else with my life. I used to play football. I was good at art at school. My teachers had high hopes. My teachers were so good to me. I got an A star in Humanities. Ever heard of a Supermassive Black Hole?
The smoke snaked several sides sending shivers skyward, so someone said. She should say so, hay? And then she did and it was not what they were expecting and he was saying the same things again; like a dog kicking earth over its poo and not as proud. It’s all in the eyes. All in the eyes. They EYES boy!
This bus ticket says, ‘I’m on the bus.’ Every drop of information dies as quick as an unseen eyelash on the windscreen of a tatty car zipping home when there is no home. Your comfort zone. You bronze bone. The thicket where she shook the spider from her tights. The blush of blood. The roses. The pointless roses.
And the little notes. All the little notes. And in her/his brain; the ideal words; ‘what words; what riht words?’ He kissed the mirror and felt the yawn of age rummage through his bones; his bones were improtant to him. She flicked the phone shut. She thought about the garden. Who was he anyway? He was at home. In his comfort zone (he wasn’t comfortable). He was sat down. He held a cup of orange juice. No, a mug. An inappropriate mug of orange juice. And he said sod it, he said. And, as he said it, the mug and its contents) fell to the floor. Ker-slplopsh. All over the laminate flooring (as advertised in the ad for the room; the basement room; the big, ‘ol coffin; ‘treacle,’ he said, flicking the hollow wall, ‘fucking treacle…’
Sha-la-la. Diddle-lee-dee. A ferryman’s life for me.
There was an old, greenish rock; smooth…well smooth. I know a man that swears it’s from another time; older time; like now; just not.
=Don’t put yer change there person; put yer person in that boat; take the wheel. Can you see the faces of the families on their ways to another teary holidays? ‘Sir, my name is Tam; I am from Bognor Regis…I know nothing of the toils of the channel. Don’t offend yourself by hiring such a whipper-snapper…’
‘Nonsense!’ Said the red man with the bottle.
‘No; I shouldn’t say that. You seemed to be looking for something. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve stared into the water and seen my own future. On your way now sonny, before I get shirty.’
Tam hobbled to the chip shop, still unsure of the ferryman, or the rock that was given to him.
It was grey. No, a dark green. It depended on the light. Tam decided that many things depended on the light.