In Victoria Coach Station Exhaust fumes, urine, immemorial cigarettes – A reek even freezing cold cannot dispel; Passengers in groups, in queues, in seats As the Rapide from unsunny Carlisle Flexes brakes, with faces in a sullen row The coach for Coventry prepares to go... By the railings a mouth works up-and-down At the universe and no one, the man Attached identikit twentyish, lean. The radiation he emits is all his own. Studs like Braille, his jacket reads ‘Exterminator’ – Fashion advertising a wide berth. Daubed beneath, as if for bad measure, Is ‘Chaos Day, March 4, 1996,’ The tatty dictat, ‘Let’s start a war’. Self-picked anti-hero in a B-movie He cannot, thank Heaven, control, lack of script Recasts him as sidewalk nihilist, Bystander furioso whose mutters Complement the chains about his wrist And waist, spiky violet-tinged clusters That are his hair. Minutes bristle. In a twist He has not envisaged, a squad-car Pulls up. “May we look inside your bag, sir?” Misted breath. “None of your fucking business...” This the expected give-away. Snap search. Routine interrogation. One man’s mess Others’ law, he’s led away. Also a bystander, Though seated, here from the 5:10 for Digbeth I shuffle sight with words, a verbose voyeur: Have mercy upon policemen, punks and poets, O Lord. Defend each of us from over- righteousness; though this bus is no Chariot Of fire and our Arrows of desire are Blunted, somewhere amidst the fume-bleared concrete A dream of Jerusalem, that Countenance, those feet... Martin Bennett | Mudlark No. 12 Contents | À Une Femme Africaine