Tuesday, 14 August 2012


We do not place our hands on the handlebars; we fold our arms.

Tell the runway to flip its hair like a sorority girl and snap its gum,

sniff the sun on the backs of each others’ knees and
bury our toes in the guttural vowels of the soil.

The sky today was the inner surface of a chirruping blue pedalo,
the clouds, sea foam from the wayward prows of ships
who got convinced they’re pigs snarfling the dirt for truffles.

(For trouble.)

Wouldn’t you like to be known as that scuff-kneed troubadour with a
penchant and pizazz for double sixes?

Or maybe that’s the trouble: maybe it doesn’t matter which
lacquer the world points and stares at;

maybe your meringues will sink in the oven while your
heart still jangles; maybe your soul isn’t made of

headlines and dinner parties and that girl-over-there’s approval.

Truth be she’s a dick and a doozy, truth be
you were always the radio station worth tuning to

and I’d listen all day to your bow-wows and howls.

Take your hands off the handlebars, princess;
take your feet off those pedals.

There’s a stiff breeze whipping this sunset into shape
and the moment

you stop panting

it’s yours.

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