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Array
(
[sid] => 166851
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => Down gets up
[time] => 2011-07-24 00:14:28
[hometext] => A day in the life...
[bodytext] => Mr. Down gets up in the morning he's wearing a frown because his life is boring he addresses the mirror apologetically then descends the stairs to make a cup of tea. The toaster is set, the T.V. Is blaring he hits the wash pile to choose what he's wearing the ironing board clacks as he sets out his fashion what happened to his dreams, his pride and his passion? He waits for a bus in the cold light of day frustrating himself as mass passes his way he thinks for a second the bus stop's abandoned boredom sets in, he thinks thoughts that are random. Guns and guitars, what ifs and wherefores frightening himself, wondering what he went there for he'll stock up on essentials, tinned food just in case the bus rides the brow, there's relief on his face. The bus door is opened he hands over his fare repeating daily the strange made up name where he will alight, 50 yards from his work place it's 12 minutes late it is a total disgrace. The bus is packed badly, with coughing disciples he'd take out ten percent if he had a rifle. The chav on the back seat swears broadly and loud Texting, feet on facing chair, cocky and proud. He's just about bearable, unlike the whiff from the bloke sat in front and his dodgy quiff. Clothes that were washed but took too long to dry upon him looks down, and he's wondering why? The bus whirls away then hums a monotony vibrating and clacking as traffic lights don't pity down, feeling tired, rests his solid forehead on the window, the shaking shakes out the cobwebs. At last the ring-road beckons, the bell is pressed. He sits pensively, knowing this is a test counting and watching then getting up sharply momentum carries him, walking so startle'y, tapping and rapping the poles like a master. His obsession with routine, a total disaster. Doors open,the bus starts to stop. Down thanks driver, he steps off, a rhythm known by all bus riders. The next test approaches, he passes the bakers the smell of sweet bacon, a moment to savour but he is so late that his story would falter if he brought a meaty treat up to the alter. he gets to his desk, says good morning politely the piles in his tray are all messed up, unsightly. He rattles around like he's searching a den under his desk is where he finds his pen. His boss wants to speak to him, things are not easy less cogs are required, conversation is greasy the tiles will remain but we can't afford grout the long and the short is that Down is now out. Down leaves his office, trembling with fear he gave those bastards the best of this 10 years his fire and his passion returned, but no glory. Pride is destroyed. No moral to this story. [comments] => 2 [counter] => 217 [topic] => 31 [informant] => poeticjestix [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => StoryPoetry )
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