Wednesday, June 18, 2014

Two Turn Tables and a Microphone

Riding's been slow lately. Nothing much doing. Just the standard fare. Well, apart from the bridge collapse, but even that wasn't too exciting as I wasn't there when it happened. It did give me a reason to do some urban beach riding though - wanted to ride a bit without going too far as I didn't know how to get to where I needed to be and didn't want to miss getting on my bus.

Photo dump. Enjoy.


Well loved:

This is what I imaging pure honeycomb tastes like : acid bitter covered in clover
sweet with the grit of windblown silt and
the grass of a million miles of prairie swept
bare of all life by the winds that blow Conestoga wagons off
course on their way to the promised land.

This is what I fear death will be like: nothing. This is
what I fear death will be like: 8mm silent films running in slow
motion to the point where the bulb heats the
film stock to a pungent vapor in the air redolent of petrochemicals
and August sunshine burning through your childhood bedroom
window - rubber and sand, bleach and uncured paint.
Mildew. Every embarrassment replayed for infinity on a white bed
sheet tacked to the wall of heaven or hell, whichever it may be
where consciousness goes when the body decomposes.

These are the words I'm afraid to say: no, yes, I need you, none of this is true,
I can't continue like this, sex, love, sex, I need you more
than you need me.

I've spread myself out, flayed and open or cloistered and closed,
 it doesn't really matter anymore. I am a beast of burden, like Mick said,
 but it's well beyond that discussion, so many years now, our
habits calcified, mummified, set in our ways.
Two old people doing old people things. Yes, this is the fate of everyone.
Those moments of recapture, when 20 feels possible
again, are fleeting taunts just to remind us of how old we really are.

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