Oan the 11 bus
hame the night
Long day, oot tae Ayr
Joab interview,
fuck-ye fatal success prayers
DWP-peyed-fir bus ticket
Ayrshire Dayrider, sivin-twinty,
world’s yer slurp-it-doon oyster.
Oaf the bus it the station
intae the Wheatsheaf,
quick ganting-oan-it pint fae the skint-is-fuck
crisis grant, thirty-three quid
fae the suspicious phoning Welfare Fund.
Then shopping, bare minimum
Case ay beer ease the painfueled fear
tae stey the fuck alive
Balanced oot by a bag in each hand.
Then ontae the bus hame
Early evening, busy, few seats.
Thir's a couple in the back row.
Planked doon wi the bags
Right in the middle ay five seats
Guy tae ma winday left
Guy tae me winday right
Empty seat atween each ay us
Aw fuck man, this bit ay the bus
smells like pish, wonder if somecunt
pished oan the flare, ye nivir ken.
Cunt oan ma left, looks sixty,
bald heid n white ratty mattit beard
decides he’s in a talkative mood:
“Ah hate this time ay year.”
Cunt sounds kinnay pished.
“Why’s that?” ah idly ask.
Tired as fuck, too tired tae even ignore him.
“Ah eywis lose a faimly member roond
this time ay year.”
Silence fir a second, whit tae say, realising the smell
is coming aff ay this no-fucking-caring guy.
Bland diplomatic answer.
“Well let’s hope that disnae happen this year.”
“Ah hope it disnae.”
N then he becomes yin ay these
wind-em-up listen tae thum talk cunts,
nae input needit, monologue mode triggered.
Cannae make oot a loat ay whit he’s saying
Radio static, bad signal-tae-noise ratio
The combined effects ay the bus engine
n his pished hauf-gibberish voice.
“Ah’ve goat sivinteen weans, thir aw grown.
They live doon south, cannae see thum noo.
If ah wis tae go doon it wid be the polis
‘Yer criminal recorded up tae the max.’
Cousin ay mine goat twinty-sivin years
fir murdering twae screws in Shotts,
yin cawed him a tinker. He said
‘Right, that’s it, boof,’ grabbed him
roond the throat, chucked
him oor the bannister, hit the flare,
Heid smashed open intae bits.
Ither screw says ‘hoi!’ n ma cousin says
‘You’re gaun tae,’ grabbed him by the throat,
oor the banister is weil. It took sivinteen screws
tae get him doon the stairs.”
Ye meet thum aw, ah’m hinking,
wishing ma car hudnae goat scrapped
a few happier-times weeks ago.
“Eh…whit wis he in fir?”
“A breach ay the peace.”
“How long wis he in fir?”
“Six months.”
“Bit that disnae make ony sense, why
go in fir six months n end up daeing
twinty-sivin year?” Ma heid wis spinning.
Didnae ken if the cunt wis making it up or no
Too tired tae argue, glad ma stoap wis coming up.
Some mair muffled garbled gibberish
fae ma chatty Christmas-mood new pal.
“Ah wis in the hospital, ah hud a stroke. Fucking
male nurse cawed me a tinker, ah said ya cunt, ye
ken whit ah’m gonnae dae wi ye? Ah wis too weak,
telt ma son, he follayed the cunt hame yin day n kicked sivin shades ay shite
ootay him, broke his airms n legs.”
Ah jist noddit. Fuck wis ah meant tae say, likes?
“Ah said ye ken whit a tinker is? It’s somebody
thit sells pots n pans. Ah mean, ah may be a
traveller, bit ah’m no gonnae disrespect ye.”
Ah said sound, goat up tiredly, ma stoap thank fuck.
Pressed the stoap button, wobbled unsteadily
doon the bus taewards the front wi shoogling bags.
Heard ma pal saying tae the opposite winday boay
“Ah thought ye’d fell asleep there!” n laughing.
Glanced roond, boay noddit n smiled blandly
Dinnae ken how much ay the conversation
he’d hud occasion tae hear, bit it wis awright.
This cunt wis a traveller, he wid nivir disrespect him.
Mibbe kick him hauf tae death, or get a faimly
member tae dae it fae his whae-kens-how-real
ultraviolent doom-dealing brood.
N ah sighed, thanked the driver,
goat aff the bus n wondered
aboot fuck aw bit the nixt
nutter ah wid sit doon
nixt tae n keep ma
mooth tight
fucking
shut fir
the hale
fucking
trip.
Peeyes: Ah nivir even goat the fucking joab eftir aw that.
END
27/11/2023
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