Me and The Bike

the bike and me are now one,
we congeal with every turn,
like a sweating finnish ex-junkie
playing ‘reveal’
on a gone gone wedding night,
with a bloodless and stained
dark-skinned violin.
as ever,
the truth lies,
in the eyes, smoke.
the bike and me we can’t lie though,
we double both as knight rider
and ludlum,
tearful european train stations,
and gilgamesh:
red eyes workin dimes over blue,
shadows by the cigarette machine
in good ole constantinople.
an alternative camera angle views
a hanging man
from a windy past
with a biased cigarette,
lamenting yesterday’s
god-awful news.
see smoke;
evolution darts when the bill comes in –
straight out the window
of the restaurant toilet
uncompromise eyes for a blinker:
slumbersome and dull
twelve-star hotel foyers
dabble deckchairs bejewelled
in sleazy italian charm
by ruin:
low carb diet,
a hamburger,
and stomach-churning pleasantries;
wallowed superficial,
to hold back tears,
a fly in a half glass;
a spectral glance at paradigms.
the sun
creatures of habit?
culturally inclined?
no. no. no.
just that this is
a jealous world smoke:
a prison cafeteria,
an airgun at christmas;
the jealous horde,
exercise prismic,
with faith and austerity,
on the front line
of the bench press.
see smoke,
what we have learned is nothing at all,
and a double-arrowed retort,
is just a smokescreen
in the crosshairs.
and smoke passes smoke.
i for one knew more
when i knew nothing.
everything else
seems like a great
cushion for hurt:
a disingenuous highbrow blink,
to the fashion of discard.
just like the j-man
teaches to the candide:
requires us
to destroy us,
and collateral damage
is merely a number
on a wall street
idiot frenzy;
a writhing baby elephant
head on
with a train;
a tick,
or a cross.
so i choose
to lean, smoke.
as i crawl;
the seminal wave,
an unchasable design;
is all starlight
and wisdom,
and gaze;
afternoon seeps,
and we still
remain waves.
and there requires no rhyme for what occurs next, smoke.
almost listlessly,
we make our way home.
in our prayers,
we make our way home.
home like a hungry sad dog,
not a wave,
are always hungry, smoke.
insatiable appetite.
enough about debris
of planes
in the mountains,
straight to the point
of ruined survival.
when i wrote that,
i smelt the conditioned air
of that bright red dress she wore
in the aching sun that day.
the problem and the solution intertwine,
they are also one,
and are strangely
only divisable in the collective.
problem has an edge in
its growing confidence,
but only solution,
can laugh in the dark.
problem is almost demure
at being modest,
is almost coy
at being bashful.
just two bikes
in a three-cent race
towards the cliff
of the horizon, smoke.
me and the bike,
just after sunset,
laughing with confidence.

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