#crispman

CRISP MAN

 Cheese and onion.

 The guy on the bus was eating cheese and onion crisps so vividly. He was sat behind. Still is. I could see his crisps through my nose. I could fathom the shape. RINGS. Definitely. Smoke rings, heavy plumes. Vapour trails.

 Mouth open.

Crunching.

Intrusive. The fucking cheek. Tangible offence. Wafts. Ungodly. Really awful. 

I’m gasping for non-cheese and onion air. This is the thickest its been yet. And then…calm. His pace chilling to a still heartbeat. Still offensive, still thick.

No crisps on public transport. The worst offender bar none. All my Burger King bitches with your staid over priced brown paper cheese lungs, you do not even touch crisps. I heard him pause. Stillness. The noshing of fingers. The savoury honeysuckle. This. Is. Gross. 

Now he’s back. Second wind.

 Family feed bag. 
The projection. 

Pink Floyd light show. 
The air thick. Grave architecture. Crustpunk. 

You fucking bastard, I hate you.

 This is the pollution that hits home the hardest. 

 You’ve whisked the air up into stiff peaks.

I actually hate you.

 The sound of you gumming, exploring your mouth for remnants. Hmm, what shall I wear tonight? I forgot about THIS old thing! 

Such nosh. This is truly unbelievable. 

Fucking close your mouth for fuck’s sake. 

 This is THE bottomless bag. Mary once you Poppins you can’t stoppins. 

 Third wave. 

Fourth wave.

 Eternal wafts. 

I know the bar is low for a night bus but this…this is beyond. 

The worst thing is the pacing. The hope, the dashes, the still, the troughs, the calm, the reboot. The moments where you think it’s over. 

I can’t emphasise the between-noshing moments enough. The gumming. The non-packet work. The space between the notes. 

He just got off the bus.

 He was wearing headphones. He couldn’t hear himself eat, I presume…though, no, fuck that because crisps are loudest inside your own head. He knew what he was doing.

 I think he left the packet on the bus. Foil drop. 

 20 minutes fucking eating crisps behind my head. Why don’t you move in. Why don’t you just follow me around doing that thing you do with the crisps. You know. I don’t care what the crisps were. I’m turned off crisps forever (for now). They were DEFINITELY from Spar (no conscience shit pedlars for the waved wastemen of EVERYWHERE) and non-brand. 

 Now there is a man wearing leather pantlets, talking to himself and drinking a can of Stella. I feel like he might turn around and see me writing and bite my hand off. So…bye.

 Wait. He just got off the bus and yelled “STOP THE TRAIN!” That is funny though. I’ve forgotten all about crisp man.  STOP THE TRAIN!  

😂