The American Bus (up route 826) [21.04.2024]
The American bus, soulless and sounding fake
with an aluminium yammer instead of a diesel chug
pulls up at a not real stop
no shelter, no sign, no bench
at some nowhere place with wrecked
chicken wire fencing on crumbling concrete posts
and nobodies drift on and off with nothing to say
and me too, whoever I’ve become.
Laramie. Wear the right hat. Chevrolet. Humpty back Brougham, Nippy Duster
reflecting bunting screens
in a shonkly flaggy lot
whatever a lot is I reckon it’s not much of anything
me who’s just signed up for a drugs trial
can’t get work in the land of the free
or the home of the running scared
on the map Miramar don’t look far
how inspiring numbered streets
and what’s a Flagler? The bloke who waves racing cars off?
I’m all the way past Sweetwater
from down in Kendall
it’s like Birmingham to Stoke in a straight line
except you know what bus routes are like
What happened to Greyhound. In the movies it’s always Greyhound
in the songs it’s Greyhound
“Would you mind telling me when we get to Miramar?”
I ask the driver. He looks past me kinda dazed
fking rude. Ah dun caeh f he black n all
An old dear freaks when I lean forwards to ask
further back some old black in a squeaky anorak
laughs that backwards inhale sort of black laugh n sez
“Ah only count you got jus the one head fella. Ah’ll tell yaw when we’s at Miramar”
The doors open shshshshsh
and it’s so hot fat black women can’t be bothered wid nuttin
they’d be mithered if they knew what it meant
but they’re busy shouting at shouty naughty kids
outside the general store that’s generally run down
with dried lawns rubbed away by short-cut shoes
And getting off I ask why the JFK am I here?
I’m not Huckleberry Underpants, I’m not
drug deal chopper nor even fearing loathsome city
Kerouac’s almanack can hit the tobacco Jack road
care for some wine Mr Goose?
Am I de monkey on de street car?
I’m just invisible in my European clothes
and my Prince Charles accent - which I play up to
it’s all I’ve got
o like gaaawd he sounds like prents chearles say
the sans accént Pacific rim Atlantic drawlers
Icelandic trawlers? sorry that slipped out
I’m not going to marry the girl
her mum’s too pushy
Marry a Doctor Lawyer - the naysays were right
I can’t get to San Francisco
literally too much baggage and not enough brains to dump it
there’s a regret, but it was to sell when I got back
Frankly, I need a break
so the drug trial buys my Laker and he goes bust (cos they don’t do
bankrupt) so Pan Am take up the slack
or ‘sell me a ticket’
And I’m off to rumours of snow in May
a blackbird in Kings Cross
fresh rain
fresh air
polite train announcements
shame Londoners are all elbows and spite
as the carriage rocks
and the don’t pull chain sways
and the ashtrays cram another king-size butt
familiar brick buildings swooosh nearer then arc away
and an interesting scene at a crossing is gone
and footy games fill fields
and Sikh cyclists ride with lollys
and an old bloke pees on his allotment
and despite some woman with string on her specs
and the girl who I know is looking when I’m not
we don’t stop
at girl-in-mac-news-stand-pram-brolly-trilby
headscarf stations that bad-aram (nod) bad-aram (nod) bad-aram (nod) by
out into stark sunlight tractor turned
and gull flapped
and the streets have names
and hey Karl lemmie buy you a pint lad