Who are the ‘Bus Wankers’?

bus pic (2)A collection of poems about the author’s bus travels, dedicated to the inspirational lads (clearly avid fans of the In-Betweeners) who drive past her bus stop every day, shouting ‘Bus Wankers!’
The ‘Bus Wanker’ poetry collections represents a plea to all councillors, across the UK, looking to save money by demolishing our much-loved bus stations.
Instead, councillors should be encouraging Brits to abandon their cars in favour of bus travel. There are real people out there, people of all ages and backgrounds, with a variety of hobbies and obsessions, people who chat to each other face to face, rather than via the internet. And the best way to meet them is on the bus. Check out the buses and discover reality!
Join Jay Cool, a real(ish) person, travelling on a real bus, from a real bus station – a bus station that deserves a future!

 

‘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, but shapely, like, and okay, like, if you like that sort of thing.
F***, like?
F***?
Yeah, like, you want to f*** her, like?
F*** you, like, f*** you, you w***er!
What? What, like, you said to me?
F*** like, you know, f*** – f*** you!
What, like, like you want to f*** me, like?
F*** off, you f***ot!
F***ing f***, like!
Like f***!

A poem inspired by the uninspired! Copyright owned by Jay Cool, May 2017

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 …

A shut book?

Forget it.

Shift and integrate…
Corner-seat shuffle,
reabsorb bum and self
into leather
and foam.
Become one.

Words wait ….

Copyright owned by Jay Cool

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 and over,

 

and hover around the aisles looking for a taste of

something.

Something young enough

for a forty-something young lady, with a touch of silver –

perhaps –

a sparkle,

a spangle,

to bring out the grey.

 

A sequinned dress,

a stick-thin, pinned-out, silvery-sliver for an office party,

just the job for the grey.

Grab and dash.

Give it a try.

Squeeze in, inhale, diminish, deflate and snap.

A broken zip.

 

Shattered. Wings smashed.

 

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
down.
Gulped.
Disinfected.
Fizzled.
Giddy, I return –
seek 48.

On the dot, still popping, I pause …
swaying kerb,
thumb out,
tingling …
48?


Copyright owned by Jay Cool

 

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 D-dad dog sitter and
a long stay …

Bag.
Book.
Bag in book.
A B-bag book.

Resigned,
I smile,
wait, listen,
attentive.

Dogged.

Copyright owned by Jay Cool

 

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 side of me.
By deadly devices drumming, strumming, churning out distractions …
By electrical currents entering my head
space,
invading my thoughts, my words, my brain and all things that matter.

Giggles bounce along and off the twisted and twisting wires, taking off with my sanity, stealing any
last remnants of my bookish ways.

Entangled. Strangled. Choked.

Stunted.

Copyright owned by Jay Cool, May 2017

‘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 Cool, May 2017

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
his ignorance,
his out of touch-with-her-ness.

Switched off, but sparked,
she stretches up further,
swiftly turns,
forcing his obstructions,
his workman’s rough and knackered knees,
to turn and
let her go.

She re-aligns herself,
aloof,
on a platform,
at the rear,
back to his front-facing-ness, but

twists,
neck,
rotates,
catches his eye,
smirks,
asserts herself,
elevated.

A game.

Copyright owned by Jay Cool, May 2017

 

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
the hooped-open mouth of a Suffolk farmer –
low-down in his high-up tractor seat, and
prodding at his molars,
stabbing at seeds, wrenching them out from tight-dark spaces
in his lower jaw.

Success.
Closure.
A throaty lump.
Gulp.
Down.
For you …