Spite pools in their eyes, but soft, not wakened now.
My dreams are on, clamped to my ears; my hopes and I smile invisibly and watch their movement, battling through a gelatinous bass landscape, fighting the gelatinous texture of the air around them, unyielding (they are accustomed to moving slowly, you see)
"Mary likes the gin, but I've never seen her have any Wodka, now," says Jack, a wise sixteen-year old, and a reminiscent gleam, glint touches your eye as you stand, at the head of your dilapidated war-bus, feet planted wide,
yes, you remember well, how Mary used to get one off on the oul' Wodka, but now she's switched to gin and your eyes are so filled with tenderness, undirected, a testament;
presently, the bus is full and the fuller it gets, the less people will talk to you, in the preoccupation of adolescence -
you sit behind the rudder and, feet planted wide, push roaring life into this angry mammal - she rumbles and ponders to the road.
[Dilapidated, held together by tape, foam and the immutable truth of a raucous school bus on rural rambles, you'll push her back home every weekday evening, leave me with a kind jibe on the necessity of diligent study and disappear] --