sucuri
Well-known member
We spent a long night squatting the bus terminal under a pounding rain in Pousadas, Argentina. I got this poem out of the experience:
Glass room, waiting room, last room of the night
We’re all here, The Nighttime Squatters, and we’re doin’ all right.
Singers, preachers, vagabonds
Lonely travellers correspond
Through that which holds us true
In lieu,
of all that’s passed.
Terminal, all night, open doors, carnal delight
Beggers, laggers, splish-splashers, whores
The Terminal welcomes all through its
See-through doors
and if there comes a day
When no-one comes to stay
the night
or on the plastic lay
just right
without departing ticket –
the only lonesome sound
a sadly chirping cricket –
The Terminal ceases
to be just so
and changes to only
a terminal
Without light, or HBO
or lit cigarettes, brighten glow
Stories, winded, shouted – television ignored
All attentions riveted on the glories of the lore
the tales of Terminal Traveller
Heard many times before
and multiplied here,
to be spread to there,
and there – from ear to ear,
as was done before
in the Terminals of Yore
Smoky, loud, a mixture of tongues
Him in Spanish, her in Brazilian.
Those two in something
like unintelligible Crocodilian.
Lighters flicking, flames licking, watches ticking away
another night in The Terminal – soon another day
With normal passengers and normal stories
Nothing like the nighttime sorties
of The Terminal at dusk
Laugh. Shout. Beg. Spout
the feelings in your heart
‘cause here it never gets that dark
The lights are always on
There’s no dark, and there’s no dawn
Just the infinite, superfluous, mysterious,
Contagious
Terminal.
Terminal.
Terminal.
Terminal.
Four am, you want to sleep
To lay there, quiet, not make a peep
But then comes in a bearded man
With a dirty cap and wizened hand
He grins and tells you get up, son!
Your night in here is far from done!
The lights are on, and I’ve brought ale
Now sit right there and I’ll tell you a tale
About the beaches of Uruguay
A place of sun, a place of sky
A place where one must always abide
By the rules of Sea and Air!
The bearded man keeps on talking
You listen on and it’s all too shocking
When suddenly the door bursts open
Revealing a woman with her mouth wide open
Angry words are spewing out
The poor man behind her not looking so stout
“You’re a useless bum!” she shouts in Spanish
“Get out of here!” he she does banish.
She takes a seat across from you
She smiles coyly, something’s abrew
“I love your eyes, they are so blue!”
Her smile is missing some teeth
She reeks of HIV, and queefs
Terminal, oh Terminal,
Tell me a story
Mr. amputee
And get this bitch away from me
The dawn is here, no time to rest
Still, lay on down and do your best
Eight am the guard comes by
“Wake up now, your time’s gone by,”
All you give is a groan in reply
The Terminal affords no rest
The Terminal puts you to the test
And so you’ve spent a long wild night
In the place where there’s always some kind of light
A gathering, a meeting, a shelter, a home
Anything but a big white dome
Where people wait
for buses to come
Guaranteed, you’re never alone
In
The
Terminal.
You can read the full story of our time in Pousadas, and later, the Brazilian border, here: http://hitchtheworld.com/2011/09/27/the-terminal-and-the-long-walk-north/
Glass room, waiting room, last room of the night
We’re all here, The Nighttime Squatters, and we’re doin’ all right.
Singers, preachers, vagabonds
Lonely travellers correspond
Through that which holds us true
In lieu,
of all that’s passed.
Terminal, all night, open doors, carnal delight
Beggers, laggers, splish-splashers, whores
The Terminal welcomes all through its
See-through doors
and if there comes a day
When no-one comes to stay
the night
or on the plastic lay
just right
without departing ticket –
the only lonesome sound
a sadly chirping cricket –
The Terminal ceases
to be just so
and changes to only
a terminal
Without light, or HBO
or lit cigarettes, brighten glow
Stories, winded, shouted – television ignored
All attentions riveted on the glories of the lore
the tales of Terminal Traveller
Heard many times before
and multiplied here,
to be spread to there,
and there – from ear to ear,
as was done before
in the Terminals of Yore
Smoky, loud, a mixture of tongues
Him in Spanish, her in Brazilian.
Those two in something
like unintelligible Crocodilian.
Lighters flicking, flames licking, watches ticking away
another night in The Terminal – soon another day
With normal passengers and normal stories
Nothing like the nighttime sorties
of The Terminal at dusk
Laugh. Shout. Beg. Spout
the feelings in your heart
‘cause here it never gets that dark
The lights are always on
There’s no dark, and there’s no dawn
Just the infinite, superfluous, mysterious,
Contagious
Terminal.
Terminal.
Terminal.
Terminal.
Four am, you want to sleep
To lay there, quiet, not make a peep
But then comes in a bearded man
With a dirty cap and wizened hand
He grins and tells you get up, son!
Your night in here is far from done!
The lights are on, and I’ve brought ale
Now sit right there and I’ll tell you a tale
About the beaches of Uruguay
A place of sun, a place of sky
A place where one must always abide
By the rules of Sea and Air!
The bearded man keeps on talking
You listen on and it’s all too shocking
When suddenly the door bursts open
Revealing a woman with her mouth wide open
Angry words are spewing out
The poor man behind her not looking so stout
“You’re a useless bum!” she shouts in Spanish
“Get out of here!” he she does banish.
She takes a seat across from you
She smiles coyly, something’s abrew
“I love your eyes, they are so blue!”
Her smile is missing some teeth
She reeks of HIV, and queefs
Terminal, oh Terminal,
Tell me a story
Mr. amputee
And get this bitch away from me
The dawn is here, no time to rest
Still, lay on down and do your best
Eight am the guard comes by
“Wake up now, your time’s gone by,”
All you give is a groan in reply
The Terminal affords no rest
The Terminal puts you to the test
And so you’ve spent a long wild night
In the place where there’s always some kind of light
A gathering, a meeting, a shelter, a home
Anything but a big white dome
Where people wait
for buses to come
Guaranteed, you’re never alone
In
The
Terminal.
You can read the full story of our time in Pousadas, and later, the Brazilian border, here: http://hitchtheworld.com/2011/09/27/the-terminal-and-the-long-walk-north/
