Nightrider to Burwood

It's 4am, the city sleeps
the chaos of The Cross
Safely behind us, a bitter taste
From swallowing all my biting words
The men in all their drunken glory,
Offering us lifts, motivated by their dicks.


Cold and shivering
Woolworths apple, Townhall stop
The night-shift workers emerge,
Staring as if to say. Why are you here?
When you could be home, could be warm
We clamber aboard one by one, all alone


Young people, drunk people, stoned
Huddled on a dirty looking seat
The stench of the man beside me
As he breathes down my neck,
prodding my thigh with his dirty nails
I freeze. He waits, then turns away


Remind me again, where the glamour was supposed to be?
Because in this so called freedom, I'm trapped.
In a rattling bus, on flickering Sydney streets, next to a man
Who probably doesn't remember his own name.


Here's a song by the Wombats- Tokyo
The first time I heard it I thought he was singing-'If you really love me, let me go back to my whore in Tokyo'


In a study slump, where my dreams are far more enticing than memorising the muscles of the lower limb. When I have time, I'll write them all down.