on a bus with a number in a town with a name on a street called something like sycamore avenue chestnut close or butchers bridge sits a man with an age shaking with breakdown hunched on the high seats up near the back and a girl who is a daughter holds his arm with a kind of pride smiles a youth-confident smile maybe just pleased hes out in clothes called polyester-chic i slouch behind them my knees are shiny going to a place called work listening to rock from the past on a tapeplayer with auto reverse and headphones with megabass
its a year with a number that starts 19 there is booze in my morning sweat there is fag ash in my suede coat i wear black nike airs called pegasus one punctured hisses like a snake and i wonder that we dont all shake like that in fear and panic and impotence in a gut-balls reaction called instinct at the world that has become