Arriva #800/850. A Poem by Dane Cobain.

 
 
To paraphrase the greats,
never has a company been hated so much
by so many;
they are the scum
that floats on the water
that stagnates in the bucket
that brewed our primordial stew.
 
They are the reason why
I write while I’m walking
in great cursive lines
stumbling into signs and foliage
much to the amusement
of the shopkeepers who won’t sell me cigarettes,
the pedestrians who won’t lend me a mobile phone,
the drivers who ignore my proffered thumb.
 
Hell,
even prisoners get to make a call,
or do cardiac arrests not count?
 
They are the reason
for countless £2.60 Carousels,
£4 Wycombe Day passes and
£4.50 Day plus passes
now the price has gone up,
£12 taxis
over and over
£12 taxis
when I’ve already got a fucking ticket
and now I’m walking eight miles home
because the five mile route cuts across a motorway
and because my ticket ain’t worth shit
and I weep for the tree that it’s printed on
because the bus didn’t show up after 90 minutes
and I thought, ‘Hey,
I could fucking walk it in this time,’
so I did.
 
Ironically,
the only bus I’ve seen so far was out of service,
but I’ve seen sewage plants and cemeteries,
stinging nettles, farm shops,
discarded gloves and a hoodie,
and this is real countryside
if you ignore the road I’m walking on,
I last passed a sign 20 minutes ago
saying two miles to Bourne End
another two miles to Wycombe
and another two miles to my flat.
 
My feet will hate me in the morning,
but not as much as I’ll hate them –
sitting down would be the worst thing I could do
so I’ll keep on walking and writing
and venting my spleen because
(oh look, Bourne End)
Arriva is truly, outrageously shit,
can I get a hallelujah?
They take our money
and they crush our spirits
and we have to keep on going back
or walk three marathons each week
just to get to work and back.
 
Dastardly schweinhunds,
bell-ends of the highest order,
shit-stains on the anus of society,
unholy douchewater in life’s lemonade,
dogs’ ejaculate mixed with gone-off milk;
the pus,
seeping from the blisters
beneath my feet.
 
I tell you, man,
I need to learn to drive a car.
 
 
 

dane
 
Author Bio:
 
Dane Cobain (High Wycombe, Buckinghamshire, UK) is an independent poet, musician and storyteller with a passion for language and learning. When he’s not in front of a screen writing stories and poetry, he can be found working on his book review blog or developing his website, www.danecobain.com
 

 
 
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