Monday, February 25, 2008

Yes, I know it's late. But I thought I'd post this anyway, since I have a new piece of work.


The engine crawls
We fall down on our knees
to kiss the asphalt
that crumbles between
our palms, like soldiers
barracading the road through
the old town and the new city

Lies danger
Burning away at 200mph
Tarmac blisters in the stench of a pothole sun

….and looking out from the inside,
Johnny cocks his gun
Its metal glitters like the last trickles of water,
so this is what sweat tastes like,
from prisoners on the run

he thinks;
uncertain of the barrens
the cruel jibes
that plant themselves
in his memories
are growing thorns

twilights twist
a rosy vein
that blossomed
her first daughter
and he, the devil man
that spawned her

Out on the roads
Wielding weapons
of gross proportions
they fire out
all angles spinning
wheels a-grip with rage
the old man
sits slurping, grinning

Watching with a kind of naivety
at the bikers
wasting away
at speeds that kill
they take their fill
of drugs drink and women

He has seen many an outlaw
driven crazy by the sun
burned by the flames of fear
that flicker on the horizon

War damaged criminals
crippled by the surge of youth
no longer play the game
he sighs with relief;
no longer a hostage to the truth

Fast-forward to San-Fransisco
Bodies shunned in cactus strewn city
Johnny lights up
Leather jacket stitched on by name
fever-worn brows raised to the sky
Touching, slowly stroking the last
of the lead

Trunk raised high

He hums a tune
to keep himself steady
gun cocked at the ready…

‘Yes sir
this one’s a ho-or
better show her a good time’

Tears don’t fall
they flood her

Taped tresses strangle her beauty
like weeds trapping out flowers
Breath still, in danger
Breasts aware, rope twists blue
she grips her thighs a little tighter
to prevent his hand squeezing through

‘Come on little lady,
don’t be a stranger’,

he drawls
a cocktail of
hash and gin,
like a medley of grimey tunes

she bites
he moans
she screams

The kick of the wrist
the lash of the tongue
climbs yet crawls
and withers inside her

But with a bang bang
the trunk is covered
her petals scattered

Outside he stands,
leaving her for dead
the body he does sling

Taking only her silver locket
that’s the only thing she’d bring

He trembles
but can’t show fear
He lifts a cloth to wipe
the ruby stains
Stumbles, staggers
and slams the door shut.

…yet still the thorn remains

That night
in the old town
a greying shadow of a man
dreams about his family

It’d been so long
since his wife departed;
strangled at the hands of an angel
He became an outlaw
seeking revenge

He wanted to kill him
Wring his neck and slaughter
when that guy had swore upon his life, to
‘get you and your precious tramp of a daughter’

She was five
He had kissed her lips
The father bust his nose
Stroked her cheek
and touched her leg;
He’d made him comatose

but now at sixteen
she was in grave danger
a beauty all of her own
The father was scared
for her return

and checking the clock
feared but the worst
as he listened to the sound
of the speeding car, ahead
wheels ready to burst

‘She’ll be home soon’,
he says, touching the silver locket
over and over again

Its shape a rose
with a picture inside;
He gave it as a gift
when she was born

as a memory

…to the part of him that died.

ACJ 25/2/08