maybe more later.. i'm fucked.. 

    The bus kept moving, you could hear the noise of the gears and the city.
It's all in a beat, a movement, the unlying heart of the city. Boom.. boom..
boom.. quiet, it is always present. The sounds of a man dying as the thumping
of his musical instrument fails to play. Can I hear that sound now in the
sounds of the bus?
    The lights move with the noise of the city. Green to yellow to pink neon,
the color turn on and off with the pain. On and off, day and night, the lights
keep the visual illusion of brightness and heat when their light is so
artifical. Artifical light does not have to look false, but their light does.
Yet, for something so false, it keeps time with the noise.
    The movements of the bus keep in synch with noise and light. Up and a
thump, the lights move with it. Down, grind and the streetlight slides along.
    Its an organism and we have created it. The city keeps in track with
itself, slowly and surely. We are the parasites, the enzymes, the bacteria
and the viruses that keep it alive. And the bus is just another platlet of
blood that clots the fluid of the city.. keeping it alive.
    I'm a slave to the sensation. I love the sounds, I love the pretty little
blinking lights. I need to have it near me or I feel alone. Alone in a forest
without lights can be peaceful, but not satisfying. The thrill of being
surrounded by pure digusting evil and fear is the greatest feeling in the
world. Walking down an alley towards an old junkie who might kill you for
his next fix.. and just walking by, never tossing so much as a glance in the
other direction.
    The sensation of sitting on a bus and toying with the person in front
of you, placing your fingers in a young girls hair and making sure she
doesn't notice. The bus driver can't see it, as the bus keeps going. But the
thrill is always there.

---

the back doors are not functioning.


   The bus rolled faster and faster, I could see it in her eyes. The pain of
the dreams was there. I sat quietly with her and she blushed when she talked
and could only sit and look down quietly with nothing to say.
    I swear I didn't mean to say that to her. She didn't need to know that
she wasn't as beautiful as the girl walking down the street.
    I didn't know to say anything else. I honestly believe what I say and
so if I say the wrong thing, at least it is honest. If I open up honestly
then people are repulsed and turn away. I am not pure inside and I harbour
more evils than I know. A man can never know all his own evils.
    She didn't need to know the truth, but I told her anyways and I will
forever cry.
    And the bus will keep moving with my tears.

---

it's not a tear, just a raindrop.


    The two older guys slammed the Skytrain official against the wall.
    "What the fuck ya saying 'bout my friend, motherfucker?"
    "Your 'friend' just told my partner to fuck off, punk" responded the dazed
Skytrain officer.
    "Yah, well, fuck off yourself"
    With that, one of the younger kids, who couldn't have been more than
fifteen, jumped about 2 feet in the air. Simultaneously, he swung around
with his leg high above his head and smashed the official in the head.
This boy was just about 5 foot, 2 inches and here he was kicking a 6
foot tall employee of BC Transit in the head.
    His boot collided solidly with the side of the mans head. Upon reaching
earth, the boy screamed out, "Lets get the FUCK out of here!" He and his
friends began to run away from the station in a northerly direction because
they realized that the man's partner was on the emergency phone. The Skytrain
official lay on the floor on Joyce Station, bleeding from just above the ear.
He probably suffered lacerations of some sort and a likely concussion. The
boy who hit him was obviously partially trained in martial arts.
    The boys just ran and ran. I recognized one of them, but I don't know
who he is. Just a product of the system, just other rejected, violent
offspring of humanity. The police showed up around the same time my bus did.
    On the way home, I pondered the situation. I have never kicked anyone in
head. I don't threaten violence upon people. What advantage lies in beating
a man to the ground with your shoes because of what resistance he put up to
your verbal abuse? You can't steal his wallet for food, you can't steal his
car for money. You can't steal his mind, ideas or soul. You can't even steal
his bicycle.
    All those reasons above are negative.. perhaps violence is the ultimate
form of positive output. If you do not like what someone is saying, use
positive feedback (a boot to the head) to solve the situation.
    Is a kick to the head better than no action at all? If Skytrain officials
insult me, I don't look for revenge. Is that right? Can you fight a system if
you do not fight the slaves of the system individually? Is this young mans
violent action a blow against the system, against civilization, against
government.. and a blow for anarchy, and a state of peace and realization
of true freedom?
    Did he kick out of a rooted animal instinct? Did he feel threatened and
cornered by a Skytrain official?
    Did he smash Mr. Joe Skytrain because he needed to prove something? It
sounds like an insult, "Ya trying ta PROVE SOMETHING, G?" but I'm serious
here. He proved he could fight, kick and beat up people who were much larger
than he was. He showed all his friends what a martial artist he is and how
he can corrupt the teachings of a great eastern philsophy. He proved to himself
that he is not a weak, little home boy, like the rest of the false "gangstas"
that are out there. He is more than they are because he has the physical
strength to take out someone that is much larger than he is. No false
'homeboy' could do that. I couldn't do it.
    Fortunatly, my bus reached its stop eventually. I walked towards my
house and remembered what had happened before Mr. Joe Skytrain ended up on
the tile floor, bleeding between the cracks....
    "Hey... you kids have to clear out this area, theres no hanging around
these stations unless you're waiting for a bus," commanded the middle-aged
woman in a blue jacket.
    One of the older boys looked her straight in the eye and muttered something
to the extent of "Shut the fuck up, bitch.. fuck off!". Right about then, her
partner came out from the shadows.
    "Now, now, little boys. Its time to go home." was the response of the
female officer.
    At that, the ensuing violence occured. Wishing my memory served better and
I could remmber more dialogue directly, I continued to walk home.
    A bus rolled by me, going in the other direction. I felt an excess of
anger toward this boy. I realized that he did it because he felt genuinely
insulted by the comment of his being a little boy.
    Sadly, he proved her statement to be more than true.

---

we don't write songs, we don't have talent

    I fall asleep on the bus, it has been a long tiring day. All around me
I see buildings flash by, streets moving, trees swirling as the bus stands
still. My eyelids slide down on themselves.
    It is a cold dark room here. The green lights above me illuminate tiles
surrounding the room. On the floor, there are more tiles, but they
are smaller with wide grooves between them. There are two benches, like
my school P.E. locker room in high school. I can see lockers in the walls
but no locker has a door.
    He approaches my position and I spread my legs to realize I am wearing
nothing. She comes from the other side, she too is naked, I can see her long
flat breasts swaying with a hint of sag. The lights sway and the room begins
to spin in circles. Patterns of light gather around me, flickering off the
wall. The consistant pressures of the light are becoming redundant, I can
see clearer now. The walls lead into a narrow passageway which is also covered
in tiles.
    They follow me as I pass through the corridor step by step. On each side
doors emerge and then disapear behind me as if I were missing my only chance
to enter each one. I notice that these lockers have doors, if they are indeed
lockers. They also have locks and I have no can openers with which to take
over these doors and make their treasures mine. The air is deep and stagnant
as if I am the only one to have walked this way before.
    Another bench blocks my passage down this tunnel. It is a wide bench and
while it may only be a bench, it seems much too hard to pass. I stop and there
is a second woman, though this one is much more like a girl. She is thin and
pale and naked like the first. Her hair is messy and brown, her body is
hairless except for her vagina which is barely covered in a fine layer of
brown hair. The hair is moving; snakes of the orient are crawling between
her thighs. They move in and out of her labia, crawl to her stomach and
all around. I am not shocked, rather I find this to be quite appealing. Each
snake seems to be of a different species, each is different but they are
all hair and all snakes. They move with her as she slides each foot forward,
her crotch readjusts, and the snakes play with this, trying to stay in their
valley.
    She approaches me, with her small breasts pointed at me. She sits next
to me and holds my hand. I dare not move further than she instructs, for
surely those snakes are the poison into which I much not enter without
consent.
    Two men approach us, one of them I recognize but am unable to place. Slowly
they begin mutual masturbation, stroking each others excessively large penises
to a rhythm. Back, forth, back, forth their strokes go. It is fantastic to
watch the motion and intricate movements. They both orgasm simultaneously
and spray the girl and I with pools of semen. My penis becomes erect and as
it does, it slowly becomes a huge centipede.
    I stand up while the girl remains seating. I stand in front of her and
she opens her mouth. A cloud of gaseous fumes arises, polluting the air in
the entire room with the aroma of weight. The centipedes legs struggle and
crawl, pushing outwards until they have reached her lips. They are quick to
decend into her mouth. She murmurs in my ear that she has syphillis.
    I wake again, still on the bus. I am sweating and twitching.

moral : love in sex
SAUCE00Tales of the Bus 2                 Magik Elvis         Mistigris           19950402ã(

P