Tapping fingers on hand rails and thighs. Drumming hands on bags and knees while listening to music on on a silent bus, heads down not making eye contact less you want someone to sit beside you. crazy trying to to make conversation over something or someone you no nothing about.
People get on, people get off. the rapped beeping of the ticket machine and the taping of the driver within his glass box, for a girl to get off. she gives him the finger and a “fuck you” as she jumps of.
waving papers and hands, trying to keep cool. a rattling and rolling bottle across the floor as the bus stops once more. A chatting tourist trying to get directions yet failing and off they get looking even more confused then before they started.
Entranced by the music playing in my ear."This will destroy you". enchant you and chill you.
Its the music you might listen to on a come down from the night before. of clubbing, partying and drinking.
The queen of the would, indestructible, undefeated girl of the night. Go out with £50 in my pocket, shots and beer, and wine and a cheese burger. Get home to fine £45 left and half a dozen scraps of paper with numbers and emails with random names, yet no face to go with them.
With black jeans, held boots and black top, a denim jacket on the back of the back of the bar stool. The girl on the right dancing on the bar, stone cold sober, yet the first to be though out. Sucks to be me last night.
Running with hope and a prey to catch the bus. yet the man fails, out of breath and a silent swear as the big red bus pulled away with out a care.
A running bear footed boy with a towel in hand being chased by another with a camera and a smile, another armed with a bucket for the #IceBucketChallenge. A sudden scream. A sudden laughter. a small smile to myself as another is challenged by the ice clod boy doing the ice bucket challenge.
Past empty shops and green leafed trees. Past tall town houses and forgotten open spaces. over grown with unwanted waist. so much needed in this concert desert. Surrounded buy fences with ‘coming soon new houses’ sitting on high new fences.
More people get on and some get off. uncontrollable children with undisciplined parents. Eyes roll at swearing children, yet nothing said by its uncaring creator.
I watch at the passing locations ever growing closer to my departure.
out of the corner of my eye, watching the chill playing with what seams like a rope, like the kind i remember having to create the cats cradle.
twisting it around her hands then whipping it though the air. A man moves from whence he stood out of the way of the hell cats whip.
Standing where the wheel chairs and buggies commute. She climbs and swings on the handrail above, then lets go and swings on the cats cradles rope, as the big red bus slows and stops.
I pass the girl, and jump off.
As I do, I suddenly think.
A sudden slip and a sudden scream as the swing rope tightens around the unruly child’s throat. A screaming mother being held by strangers while another try’s to help the child. A hysterical crowd screaming trying to help. The driver on his phone sounding the alarm. Calling for help. A passenger on his phone recording the sad event. Another shouts at him, a push and hit, racist words and hateful eyes of all those still upon the bus. Walkers stop and view the sad commotion of the feb bus sitting at the bus stop, stoping the traffic, bring London to a stand still.
All made up in a split second. An over active mind with a messed up imagination.
What stories and tails could these London red buses could tell.
stores of hate. Stores of love, sex and lust. Stores of racism and death of innocence, if only they could speck. Know that would be a note book to read.
Leaving the bus and walking away, with my bag and music playing in my ear. To the pub for another night out on my week off. To enjoy another brandy, to ingest another rum. Sampling the taste from farad wide. To intoxicate my head. Body and spirit. to fead myself with music and lyrics. To slip in to a euphoric dream of though and dance.
© sarah patel
People get on, people get off. the rapped beeping of the ticket machine and the taping of the driver within his glass box, for a girl to get off. she gives him the finger and a “fuck you” as she jumps of.
waving papers and hands, trying to keep cool. a rattling and rolling bottle across the floor as the bus stops once more. A chatting tourist trying to get directions yet failing and off they get looking even more confused then before they started.
Its the music you might listen to on a come down from the night before. of clubbing, partying and drinking.
The queen of the would, indestructible, undefeated girl of the night. Go out with £50 in my pocket, shots and beer, and wine and a cheese burger. Get home to fine £45 left and half a dozen scraps of paper with numbers and emails with random names, yet no face to go with them.
With black jeans, held boots and black top, a denim jacket on the back of the back of the bar stool. The girl on the right dancing on the bar, stone cold sober, yet the first to be though out. Sucks to be me last night.
A running bear footed boy with a towel in hand being chased by another with a camera and a smile, another armed with a bucket for the #IceBucketChallenge. A sudden scream. A sudden laughter. a small smile to myself as another is challenged by the ice clod boy doing the ice bucket challenge.
I watch at the passing locations ever growing closer to my departure.
out of the corner of my eye, watching the chill playing with what seams like a rope, like the kind i remember having to create the cats cradle.
twisting it around her hands then whipping it though the air. A man moves from whence he stood out of the way of the hell cats whip.
Standing where the wheel chairs and buggies commute. She climbs and swings on the handrail above, then lets go and swings on the cats cradles rope, as the big red bus slows and stops.
I pass the girl, and jump off.
A sudden slip and a sudden scream as the swing rope tightens around the unruly child’s throat. A screaming mother being held by strangers while another try’s to help the child. A hysterical crowd screaming trying to help. The driver on his phone sounding the alarm. Calling for help. A passenger on his phone recording the sad event. Another shouts at him, a push and hit, racist words and hateful eyes of all those still upon the bus. Walkers stop and view the sad commotion of the feb bus sitting at the bus stop, stoping the traffic, bring London to a stand still.
All made up in a split second. An over active mind with a messed up imagination.
stores of hate. Stores of love, sex and lust. Stores of racism and death of innocence, if only they could speck. Know that would be a note book to read.
© sarah patel
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