The night bus pierces the dark. It cuts a path under the arch of Suicide Bridge. Ghosts lie on the road. The old man looks down and sees their traces. Outlines in chalk that never fade. The bus rolls through police tape it cannot see or break. Over the traces, accented by the rain. The forecast is overcast.
Closing time in London. Time is closed. Only the doors of the bus are open. And then closed. A sequence runs. Dave Baker watches the city go past. The city is in the past. A lonelyklown puts on Podload The Downcast.
The bus climbs Holloway Road. The bus is hollow. On its way from “n19 2 n5.” It’s a place of work, so work the place. It’s in the code. The name goes one way, the body goes another. The bus stops for no one.
“See How Hard a Heart Can Break.” Resile from the fragile. She leaves through the door. She leaves you on the floor. Gone for the first time. Gone for all time. Time is gone. Time to go.
Gone like summer. “All the Summers Gone.” The day on the grass has passed. Piano chords and contrails trace memories. Walk backwards through your mind’s eye to see the green. You can’t sit on a blanket of conkers. You can conquer your mind.
“Another Journey, Another Place.” Another love. Just a song. Another place for the same voice. The vocoder’s frequency is tuned to nostalgia. Dial in history. His story is pop. Pop goes the Tory. No love for Tories on a pop planet.
“Ice Creams in the Rain” takes the neon down to a wet high street. “Last Train Home” winds sirens into disco arpeggios. Siren to train. Train the siren. The music keeps time when the timetable gives up.
“Sunday Papered People” roasts the readers. The true believers. Born to hate. Born too late. Missed the boat, so they fear a small boat. Fawn at the feet of yacht owners. Call them relatable. Easy to relate when there is no relationship. Reading is hard. Thinking is harder. “Every word is true.” True is every word. Every word has a seller. Every seller has a paper.
“We Were Never Promised Tomorrow.” Tomorrow never comes. Never dies. Type again. Try again. No songs. No flying cars. No robot maids. The future arrives as a password reset. Try to get reception. We are here to receive and transmit information. We are here to go.
“Misty Monday Morning” lets a rhythm machine chatter into the fog. “Just a Day” turns slowly on a synth waltz. The lights come up. Day after night. Night after day. Baker keeps cutting the route. Another way through London. A slow dance behind the Boogaloo. The shorter the journey, the longer it takes.
