Who is Chooky and who are the ‘Bus Wankers’?

      About Chooky Chooky is a Suffolk-Shropshire hybrid and cave-dweller. Her real name is Jay Cool, but friends know her as Chooky. She loves buses and books. She is deeply in love with the bus station in Sudbury and would like it to remain exactly where it is! Who are the ‘Bus Wankers?’ A collection…

‘F***, like?’

Well, like, I kind of like her. What, like, you fancy her, like? Yeah, I know like that she’s a bit sassy like, but … You like her? Yeah, like she’s fit, like, and fun! Fit, like? Yeah, like you know, like with Kardashian tits, like, and stuff. Stuff like a fat a***, like? Yeah,…

Isolation

Back-seat. Isolation. Elevated. Absence of old-dear smiles! Lens-wipes. Indulgence … An open book – Words waiting for absorption … Rattles and bumps – a soothing sound … Concentration. Perfection. Damp hair, unwashed and odorous. Itchy sinuses, Swishing leather straps, resonant buckles and tags. A dog-owner – expectant, proud, seeks admiration, a collaborative look, mutual affection…

Exhumed

  Knackered, exhumed, drawn-out, mesmerised … H & M tempts, siphoning up the remnants of me through a straw hat, bidding me with flesh-striped leggings, to sport my way over, fly over the stationary traffic, to zone out the time-wasters, to make mockery of the drivers queuing for home.   I take off …   up…

Choice

Early, I shuffle into the soul- less bus-stop gathering, and am held upright and inanimate by buggies, walking sticks and re-usable bags made fat with High Street consumables, as I make my choice – Number 48 or Number 548? Twenty minutes or forty? Costa coffee won’t wait for a 48. Hudson’s rosé can make it…

Dogged

Silent drones. perched, contemplative, canopied – a missed bus. A long stop stay … Book? Friendly face, bulging bags, an old man’s shopping, for his dog. No, not his, his daughter’s dog – a D-Dog. A D-Dog foisted upon him, a reluctant dog-sitter. A daughter’s assumption. An exploited man. Grandad? No. Just a dog-dad. A…

Entangled

Giggles. Chatter. Unfinished utterances. Non-comments. Giggles. One sits in front of me. One sits behind. Great. No more giggles. Can refocus. Can read again. Giggles. More. Great. And I’m here. Stuck. And I’m trapped. Entangled. Entangled by headphones in front and headphones behind me. By wires dangling across, in front and behind, between, and either…

‘Bus Wanker!’

Car slows, clatters on by, caterpillar pace, clash of context. “Bus Wanker!” shouts a spot, a spot in a passenger seat, a spot, that spreads outwards until it merges at one – with other spots. A carful of pink youths, blurred, hazy … Making a smudge in my notebook of poems. Copyright owned by Jay…

Bus Games

Silk-black skin and long neck. Graceful, she glances away, longs for another place, beyond the burning red-hot glass of a red bus, double-deckered, on a roasted trip with a man, unshaven and unpruned, pale and raw, who mutters to her out-turned cheek, as if she can hear his stabbing red-hot words, his obscenities his taunts…

Top-Down

Not keen. Not for me. Not at the top. Not for … Me? Orange, glossy, gilled, miniscule. Unwillingly lurching over, lumping back, avoiding shiny low bars – perfect for hurdling over – and secured by man-handled devices. A short, snappy jolt. Catapulting high, head crashing out of exploding glass, eyes bailing out, cannon-balled over into…