On a bus

The wheels,of the green bus
spin, spin, turn and turn
as it rolls and rolls towards
unearthed plots of decadent desire.

Yellow bars for holding
the wild boys, their underarm hair
bristles in the humid breeze
sweet aromas,perfumed lakes of sanity.

We zoom past white fences and barracks

my next door seat man,

in blue jeans, eyes the street outside,

with thoughts, I'll never know.

A blockade, like the ships in the East Coast,

the wild bus boys, murmur,

uncomprehending catches of fleeting conversations

drift out the window, unheard.

Junctures of grey dusty road

etches a journey on it's own

we roll, tumble in our pseudo concerned souls,

the bus roars on, furious and naked unknown.