And you, Sir

definitely

are not.

dark icy river –
suns warm touch wakes
tormented waters

carpet under my feet
dulls the slap of a hard world –
caveman cries below

]]> http://the-fork-of-ambiguity.com/archives/40/feed 4 http://the-fork-of-ambiguity.com/archives/31 http://the-fork-of-ambiguity.com/archives/31#comments Sat, 29 Sep 2007 13:18:27 +0000 lunc http://www.the-fork-of-ambiguity.com/archives/31 Several half smoked ciggys
and a damp Havana butt.
A broken kiddie’s tricycle.
Enough planks and beams of wood
to make a large dog house
And an old dog house.
Nuts and bolts and the spanners to tighten.
Bottles whole and in half
And assortment of branches,
a thick trunk and a bundle of sticks.
A bonnet, two doors and a seat,
enough tyres to stack as high as my head
and a black bended steering wheel.
A severed dolls head and a dead cat.
A huge double mattress hiding
the mangled end of a ladder.
A paint can not quiet crushed flat.

A veritable mountain of rubbish,
some of Stigs favourite things.

It’s commonality of purpose?
Nothing but trying to kill me.
During my many miles of
merry motorway motorcycling.

Thrown in my face and lap
Piled up or just lying in wait.
Making a tyre go suddenly flat.
Hitting my feet, smashing my legs
and bashing both my arms.
Smashing my bike completely to bits,
almost succeeding and securing my fate.

I’ve weaved thorough it,
swerved around it, jumped it even.
I’ve stoppied before it
with my arse in the air,
once making a huge bunny hop.
I’ve even slid on my back while
my flailing arms mowed the verges.
Anything in making an escape.

So far it’s totally failed
to bring my untimely demise.
We are both very persistent,
so I sure we’ll meet again,
as still I know I must ride
because only then, truly,
I am alive.