Sunday, 15 January 2012

B  U  S                E  N  C  O  U  N  T  E  R  S                C  Z

1.    couple- stuck out- alky- x- slouch, drugskin, space travellers, not heading-out skirts and shirts, boil faced parchment, towards village fun fair, over her shoulder notes, barks or blurts non-human volumes, passengers hop to hold back the sick amusement of a sharp elbow. Both oils yellow hair on pink and white facemasks, ponytails up. Interests lie in their own words, mickery, not giving two czech monkeys, watching a petty mind-squirm, crawling involuntarily, achieving alien code by-productively foaming public thoughts, causing untraceable materials to fly out behind them and blowing up their own sexual waste.

2.    wholesale male, a bit of new dull cloth, thick skull is soft, thickened hair, hyker-pants, leather utility belt, tassling-out, strong bonehold, a principal contract, competitive thickness of cock- whose farm growth, thick package, wage-packet, and property separate him and the fat around his jobless brother. Unsettled, eyes stare like a doctor's call or righteous ticket inspector. My dislike repellent sucks in lonely widows and teenage girls, shakes his head at confusion, pretends to  programme nobody's judgment before witnessing signs of unusual behaviour. Likes to channel wayward ditherers onto any given path  whose force is driving out doubt.

3.    blond boy. 10 years old. grabbed the exhaust pipe to face the driver, not remotely showing off- what are the forces driving him forward- into the city, into his endless ticket, into his proudly guarded brain. Piss off, someborn, i'm someone who pities everyone i meet. Being incorruptible, as a muse he would smash your brainstorm to bits-  throw a conker or anything to hand in your face. Deliberate instinct, solid distrust, half-life mum - half-dead dad, respects nobody openly, palms off the stench of lessons. Sheds-free cloaked commodities; he couldn’t tell you what he was wearing, only that you have something embarrassing on your chin and that your fruit's rolling down the bus.

4.    A lad comes on too strong, something’s wrong. He leans slightly on half his overshowered arse, careful not to fill the seat into the bumpy aisle whilst pulling an arm out of a toy bikerjacket, stares overtly into her sharp eye who knows for seconds over what we'd call coach material. Brilliant viewing. Asspurgers maybe slipped its hand, I don’t know. He looked back without pauses till space tilted up with the rootslumps in the road. She stared stiffly out the window pretending to observe the country's  divisions.

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