That he could be I

These radio guys, just don't know any more what they shall say...

they clog them selves and us, shamelessly

they garrotte us, they cloy us

with useless transgenic

waste

make them hollow Oh miserable!

We, the ones who accept

nothing, unless rubbish

with what our final supper is being

prepared,

let us reject!

On sun's eves

to south

I was finally transferred.

The nectarines dropped

down her juicy breasts,

lucidity rips

in hands paring

and squeezing nodes

delighted we

absorbed the remains.

Travels awake in me bizarre, ambiguous

dreams.

However,

we succeeded hushing the scruffy radio guys;

parked in awe

they gazed at us

flabbergasted...

I didn't mind.

Febrile in anticipation

I scanned the landscape imagining

how it would be for each of the other 33

in the bus

to look into the same landscape.

Which sensations would they have

before the same reality

that dazzled

me.

The bus stopped.

Time for the little pee, coffee and cookie.

The guys couldn't behave,

there was trash everywhere;

collateral furies diverted me.

I closed my self in my window

and let my eyes land in a still car not faraway.

Inside the driver stared at us

and I at him and he at me... I don't know

it was too faraway

but I felt

that that he

could be

I.

© 2014, JC