Dedication to a bus driver that will never know
Blank paper makes as much sense
As the music of the turnstiles
Constant inflow and outflow
Fail to distract the frustration
And the odious comfort of mesmerizing pacing
Brings minimal solace
As
Insanity claps the narrow ledge
Of its opposite sister
Masses of flesh ooze their way
To compartmentalized hopelessness
A man makes love to his whisky bottle
Amidst the red eyed concert goers who mumble by
The greedy chocolate smeared wretches
Who annoy with mimicked telescreened adventures
Eros remains helpless joylessly suffocating
While Thanatos gleefully offers an exit and frustrated young poets
Sit in buses unable to meet the 5 year plan of literature
Futilely attempting to explain all
Robert K. Stephen
