Bus Blues
untitled
I was a burning lowlife, a would-be Bukowski, dirt beneath my crooked unclipped fingernails, writing words no living soul cared about at that point, stuck on a bus in the funny little urban cancer they call Brussels. I was on my way back home, whatever that means, one of my fears is that I won't have a home to come back to one day. I wonder if Bukowski ever had to deal with feelings like that. It's probably one of those things you have to lose before you can lose them again with no harm done.
I was talking in tongues to myself in my head, dirty tongues they were oftentimes, English is not my native language, but it feels so natural, almost as if it's the only language I speak, my universal language.
This bus was filling up with smelly tramps, incoherently mumbling, teen punks with time on their hands, too much perhaps, young women with children and old women without.
I was the only one like me.
I felt like the one guy singing off-key in a derelict choir, I'll die bold, if it kills me.
I was long due to accept the unacceptable, the bright truth blinding my fresh-opened eyes, I was alone.
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Great to see someone returning! Good show!
Nice writing. It's a relatively simple and somewhat overused concept ["I'm different than everyone else"], but it was portrayed nicely, without sounding overly arrogant or pretentious. I especially liked your use of simile.
plus one
side note: I hear a lot about this Bukowski fella, but I can't say I've read any of his stuff. People say that I'd probably like it, but knowing me I may never get around to reading it.
I agree with ITC, I find it really hard to write in an original way in an unoriginal concept and here you have managed it nicely
+1
You do fine at imitatating the drudgery of Bukowski's thought, processing (the negative side if you will) a senery of society's dirt. A bus ride is ideal for discovering strange people and smells for that matter.
I really enjoy Bukowski, so it's refreshing to know that someone else appreciates his cynicism.