Sleepy Geist Home time (Mathew Street Festival)

At a bus stop
had no sleep
Town is waning
Out to creep,
Sentences useless
times flowing by
Curtains are tweaking
Urbanist spy.
Birds out of business
the worms they have fled,
duck tapes her feet
for the egg race to bed.
Sinister bolt action words from the lip,
twisted de-perfumed shot from her hip.
Clouds that don’t notice
leaves mimic suicide
Zillions of faces
so where can I hide?
An itchy eye waters
Trans sexual porters
the vogue he is in,
flicks a wave at me.
I nod knowing, past caring.

So I have depressed feet
and minstrels hair,
but the singer of songs
couldn’t sing for a dare.
Like the passed out jailer
dropped all of his keys
I giggled politely
but not so to tease.
The rest played on plainly
the front row clapped hands
they did so still standing
no extreme demands.
Home I gave a thought too
exit stage end play.
The crowd didn’t clap
for more than 10 seconds
but they got the encore anyway.

The underground smelt
as undergrounds do
6 car 10 minutes
but the tracks they had flu.
Minutes came 20, blew hard to embark
took a seat sitting, till all became dark.
Still hearing the dogma of Beatles and tales
from a chirpy cockney accent originally from Wales,
who knew a friend of old Pete Best
to the mull of Kintyre he sails,
and with his very last 20 pence
won a pound on heads or tails.
Mails Paul McCartney weekly
Keeps Yoko as a thought
wonders why things are different
from the poster he’s just bought.
The dirge becomes indifferent
as sound fades coloured dreams,
tastes becoming black and white
someone shouts, that’s what I mean.
Mildly aroused from the motion
or vocational potion,
enough to burden my slumber
and open unfocused
to hear the drone of Über fan clone
I thank my station eject mild elation
and head for the concrete as I’ve arrived.

By Gary Watson