!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> pegasus horse cake.: fourteen



with the lights out, it's less dangerous,
here we are now, entertain us.
i feel stupid, and contagious,
here we are now, entertain us.

riding on la ruta, school morning but not just yet, listening to the cherished, beloved tape, recorded from another tape which was recorded from yet another source, maybe another recorded tape passed from hand to hand, watching cars go by in their daily routine of traffic lights. the bus stops, the song is heard clearly for thirty seconds perhaps?

come dowsed in mud,
soaked in bleach
as i want you to be

and it rides on. the vibrations of the window won't let a heavy head rest against it, and the coat as a pillow pushes the earpiece against the ear painfully, so the tired weight bobs like a puppet's head in a half-asleep daze. kids. little kids. red jumper uniform shared in masses. then a teenager. older. he is so mature. looking at him out of the corner of the eye. he sits. kurt cobain t-shirt. older kids get to wear their own clothes.


it's rainy. there's condensation on the window. spindly see-through scribbles. maybe stockings were a good idea, maybe socks weren't enough. but tartan skirt could be shorter. earpiece drops, and is fetched from the dark innards of the jacket on the lap. grey pavement arranged in diamond-shaped cobbles that scream out 'home this is home' with that characteristic special smell, while people walk on them with that characteristic special sound, hugging themselves as a futile attempt to steer away the cold.

we can plant a house
we can build a tree
i don't even care
we could have all three

is he sleeping? is he awake? the corner of the eye is too much of a dark place to tell. last ones step up the two steps, coats, bags, rustle rustle rustle, the sheets haven't been unstuck from their faces yet. the tape stops, starts on the b-side. twenty minutes to go, half an hour to go. too many people on the bus, the music is drowned by their voices. never talk in the mornings. too grumpy. too croaky. music and headphones is a good excuse for some uninterrupted thought. fields. fields turned into building sites anticipated by gigantic billboards with some clichéd logo and a badly cged picture of the to-be young pregnated couples' homes away from the city's buzz but yet near enough to drive to work every morning without an excessively early start. a large community garden too. the road is laid in front, and bushes whiz past in their sienna loneliness, barred by grey, in front, and above.

i'm on a plain
i can't complain
i'm on a plain

driving up to the whitewashed walls, the feeling of dread at the realisation of a missing textbook, oh no, no, stupid, stupid. homework done, yes. pull on coat, gloves, stupid socks they're not warm enough. earphones off, winded around the walkman, jealously hidden. pushing against seats, an awkward bag, and two people further behind is the cobain t-shirt under the yellow coat. while stepping down, a quick glance towards the cobain boy, so quick that it isn't aknowledged. the walk begins. an exchange of greetings, casually hanging back, until the unreachable yellow overtakes the sleepy teens, carefully watched. it disappears into the sterile-like building. frozen legs, stupid red socks, five minutes, and so the day begins.


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