One way to be in the world
is to live jerk furtive
in the quick store carpark
squat behind buick wheel
scraped and all banged in,
hungover unshaved erect,
with no pony tips to play.
Mocha big gulp balanced
on vinyl dash cracks with
your beige savior upright,
one gloss ring per bored day
making a coaster extra luxe
while spitting your dribble
onto seedy shifting carpet,
rubbed off brake and clutch.
Sneaker tongue shot eyelet
worn through daily rhythm,
enjoying only in your mind
white sweats stretched elastic
from damp plastic into trash
when the lap becomes the thighs.
Ritual light and sweet
a morning queue wait,
flapping brown packets
of sugar bulging pre-tear
next to spills of coffee
and ashes from the suck of now:
an ask never even noticed
glimmers into wasted guilt
from the gimlet of your eye.
Death wish goose limping,
invisible to chrome hoods,
tries to reach the wood
wondering how much glass
is really in this world.
4 comments:
My goodness, Gerry, Mr. B. what a powerful piece of writing. So worth the re-reading.
Love the last line.
@Akeith: :-) good thing it's priced as 'all you can read'. cheers
Can't say which I love more, how the words sound or the images they conjure. Very nice!
@Claude Limoges: Why not love both? To be torn between two loves is a great impetus to the creative spirit.
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