So here is the first post of 2016. To commemorate the occasion I have written a new poem, much like a hormone-addled fourteen year old girl might. But my poem is not about unrequited love, Accessorize or menstruation, oh no. It's all about the joys of commuting, specifically having to catch buses in South London. I am a commuter in South London and I take buses, and so I am completely qualified to tell this story, and I choose to tell it in poetry form.
Were I to write a poem about operating predator drones in Afghanistan from a windowless khaki portacabin in the disused parking lot of a Waffle House in Philadelphia, the poem would not ring with quite the same truth, the same emotional resonance and clarity of fact; the ringing, precise authenticity of clear experience - despite the traumatic stress being broadly similar. So, commuting it is.
The Fried-Chicken Bus
A grim South London high street rain-slicked,
and home-sicked.
I'm waiting for the fried-chicken bus home.
The usual commuter beats, the hood ornaments, the freaks.
I'm one of them, but through wary eyes
all they know is that I'm a stranger,
a threat, a danger
of getting on before them,
maybe bagging the last double seat.
My app tells me I have two minutes to wait.
Flattering to deceive,
it's gonna be at least eight. Or nine.
I'm waiting for the fried-chicken bus home.
From out of the halogen night, a squeal of brakes, a roar.
A red rectangle of darkness,
Making us wait, bunched up at the stubborn door.
A flicker of light,
then a hiss of hydraulic,
a surge of movement, beeps electronic.
They say the British like to queue, but it's not true.
whoever 'they' are
have never tried boarding a bus in South London at rush hour.
It's more of a bundle.
The liver-spotted pavement releases me to the light,
handing me over from the night
into the tortuous portal of the fried chicken bus home.
The stairs are covered with dry white bones
sucked clean and splintered,
crunching underfoot.
Twisted bones from aggressive breeding,
modified for aggressive feeding.
Bright orange handrails slick with grease,
An atmosphere slimy with olfactory menace.
(When I get home I'll have to wash my hands with washing up liquid,
the horrors they have upon them inflicted.)
A small cardboard box sits on the only empty seats
(a double near the back, now I know why).
the name of the vendor stamped on the side.
'Ultimate Fried Chicken'
An unlikely claim for a cartoon chicken to squawk out with pride,
presumably before having its throat slit and strung upside down then plucked, still alive,
before being torn apart and deep fried.
Hell, we all love chicken though, am I right?
It's an incomplete feast, three half-eaten wings
and the remains of a bigger piece.
The box reeks of too much salt and eye-watering vinegar
(that's probably not recommended by any medical practitioner).
Gingerly pitching the box off the seat, it's somebody else's problem now.
Well, it's their job isn't it? To clean up our mess from the floor.
They wouldn't have a job if it wasn't for us would they?
They should be grateful dammit, let's all throw some more.
I'm sitting on the fried chicken bus home.
Five stops left and an empty bottle of Dr. Pepper Zero rolls around the aisle,
probably part of the meal deal.
It lodges against the greasy box at my feet.
Who drinks Dr. Pepper anyway? It's vile.
I kick it away but my foot takes a half consumed piece of chicken with it,
bouncing across the floor of the top deck leaving a spattered congealed fat- trail, like a snail.
Half chicken, half-snail. Snicken.
Three stops left and the stricken snicken is rolling back towards me,
and I can only watch helplessly
as it retraces its fatty trail
and returns to the fold,
to its foul, half-consumed chicken winged brethren of old.
Another kick should see it away, but I miss and step on it instead,
my foot squashing it against the floor with a gristly crack and a squelch.
A boy watches and laughs,
takes another bite of his superfood salad.
I'm kidding,
he's eating fried chicken.
That's it,
I'm getting off the fried chicken bus home.
Were I to write a poem about operating predator drones in Afghanistan from a windowless khaki portacabin in the disused parking lot of a Waffle House in Philadelphia, the poem would not ring with quite the same truth, the same emotional resonance and clarity of fact; the ringing, precise authenticity of clear experience - despite the traumatic stress being broadly similar. So, commuting it is.
The Fried-Chicken Bus
A grim South London high street rain-slicked,
and home-sicked.
I'm waiting for the fried-chicken bus home.
The usual commuter beats, the hood ornaments, the freaks.
I'm one of them, but through wary eyes
all they know is that I'm a stranger,
a threat, a danger
of getting on before them,
maybe bagging the last double seat.
My app tells me I have two minutes to wait.
Flattering to deceive,
it's gonna be at least eight. Or nine.
I'm waiting for the fried-chicken bus home.
From out of the halogen night, a squeal of brakes, a roar.
A red rectangle of darkness,
Making us wait, bunched up at the stubborn door.
A flicker of light,
then a hiss of hydraulic,
a surge of movement, beeps electronic.
They say the British like to queue, but it's not true.
whoever 'they' are
have never tried boarding a bus in South London at rush hour.
It's more of a bundle.
The liver-spotted pavement releases me to the light,
handing me over from the night
into the tortuous portal of the fried chicken bus home.
The stairs are covered with dry white bones
sucked clean and splintered,
crunching underfoot.
Twisted bones from aggressive breeding,
modified for aggressive feeding.
Bright orange handrails slick with grease,
An atmosphere slimy with olfactory menace.
(When I get home I'll have to wash my hands with washing up liquid,
the horrors they have upon them inflicted.)
A small cardboard box sits on the only empty seats
(a double near the back, now I know why).
the name of the vendor stamped on the side.
'Ultimate Fried Chicken'
An unlikely claim for a cartoon chicken to squawk out with pride,
presumably before having its throat slit and strung upside down then plucked, still alive,
before being torn apart and deep fried.
Hell, we all love chicken though, am I right?
It's an incomplete feast, three half-eaten wings
and the remains of a bigger piece.
The box reeks of too much salt and eye-watering vinegar
(that's probably not recommended by any medical practitioner).
Gingerly pitching the box off the seat, it's somebody else's problem now.
Well, it's their job isn't it? To clean up our mess from the floor.
They wouldn't have a job if it wasn't for us would they?
They should be grateful dammit, let's all throw some more.
I'm sitting on the fried chicken bus home.
Five stops left and an empty bottle of Dr. Pepper Zero rolls around the aisle,
probably part of the meal deal.
It lodges against the greasy box at my feet.
Who drinks Dr. Pepper anyway? It's vile.
I kick it away but my foot takes a half consumed piece of chicken with it,
bouncing across the floor of the top deck leaving a spattered congealed fat- trail, like a snail.
Half chicken, half-snail. Snicken.
Three stops left and the stricken snicken is rolling back towards me,
and I can only watch helplessly
as it retraces its fatty trail
and returns to the fold,
to its foul, half-consumed chicken winged brethren of old.
Another kick should see it away, but I miss and step on it instead,
my foot squashing it against the floor with a gristly crack and a squelch.
A boy watches and laughs,
takes another bite of his superfood salad.
I'm kidding,
he's eating fried chicken.
That's it,
I'm getting off the fried chicken bus home.
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