That Bus Ride in August

by Nellie

Easing my behind into a window seat, my thighs
like Jell-O pudding, shaking with the potholes.
I peeled them from plastic, pools of sweat,
and imagined that babies were screaming
in horror at my risen body, their mothers
judging my pink hot thighs, as if
they illumined my brain.

11 replies on “Midnight Bus Poetry”

  1. GM manager fired by prez

    GM must rewrite labor contracts

    who gives a shit

    they are not coastal at all those lakes do not count

    these folks are all dinosaurs ha ha ha ha ha ha

    who needs an auto industry

    my god, they even demand to be equal to titans on wall st.

    which incubated Obama’s economic team.

    Lansing, Flint, they even eat rabbits there for food

    They are not even worthy of comment.

    We are truly “Superior” not anyone in the industrial midwest.

    “Our nation” produces bus poetry

    reflecting more civilized sensibilities.

    Any old crap

    about a bus ride in August

    and fat thighs

    is more beautiful

    than 400,000 families in Ohio, Michigan and Indiana.

    They voted for Clinton.

    Fuck them.

    Sniff, sniff, sniff.

  2. Even tho my destination,
    Is only a couple of blocks,
    I’m way too tired and fat,
    To try and walk.
    So I will wait,
    For a bus to come.
    Then I’ll share my lunch,
    With a hungry Bum.
    We’ll sit in the back,
    And smack our lips,
    Then leave our trash,
    As our tips.

  3. I sat belonely down a tree,
    humbled fat and small.
    A little lady sing to me
    I couldn’t see at all.

    I’m looking up and at the sky,
    to find such wonderous voice.
    Puzzly, puzzle, wonder why,
    I hear but I have no choice.

    ‘Speak up, come forth, you ravel me’,
    I potty menthol shout.
    ‘I know you hiddy by this tree’.
    But still she won’t come out.

    Such sofly singing lulled me sleep,
    an hour or two or so
    I wakeny slow and took a peep
    and still no lady show.

    Then suddy on a little twig
    I thought I see a sight,
    A tiny little tiny pig,
    that sing with all it’s might

    ‘I thought you were a lady’,
    I giggle, – well I may,
    To my surprise the lady,
    got up – and flew away.

  4. Aaaugh. “Illumined” is terrible here, a fart at a blowjob. On the bright side, it signals how happy you’ll be to reconsider the whole last clause.

  5. Response to PC @2

    “It Ain’t Your Blog”

    Always complaining about what Slog’s not reporting

    But it ain’t your blog

    They can post whatever they feel like posting

    ‘Cause it ain’t your blog

    Thinly-veiled anti-Obama rants

    Hijacking comment thread after comment thread

    Why don’t you shut the fuck up here

    And just make your own blog instead?

  6. You’re now chatting with a random stranger. Say hi!
    You: dogs
    You: cats
    Stranger: you
    Stranger: you
    You: parrots
    You: donkey
    Stranger: cut combobreaking
    Stranger: you
    Stranger: just
    Stranger: lost
    Stranger: the
    Stranger: game
    Stranger: there
    Stranger: fucker
    You: i hate you
    You: to death
    Stranger: I know

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