Early Morning Sunday Bust-Up

 

Bradford Interchange
and a range of randoms
queue in an arbitrary,
almost European manner,
ironic in this post-Brexit dystopia.

All aboard theSHUTTLE bus
for a scary ride into
the personal space of strangers.

A widescreen treat for the senses.

Medium to heavy weathered women,
layered in greasy animal skins,
take the weight off
the sides of their Fugg Bootz

while Morlock menfolk
slow release their mating stinks -
B.O. meets Cheetos®,
only slightly masked by Lynx.

In Lister Park,
crocuses spring forth
in glorious profusion,
parma violet, peppermint fondant
and custard-coloured.

Outside the shattered window,
Nature continues its sweet secret mission,
unconcerned with our purposeless
theSHUTTLING and scuttling.

Paper-skinned, osteoporotic oldsters
ricochet like pinballs down the aisle
as we pull up at the drive-thru Greggs.

Time to get off.
I press the bell.

The next stop:
Gates of Hell.

B.R. 08/03/2020