Poeticising autobiographies,
vicarious thrills felt
through old-shoe eyelids
as I drift ghostlike
over tarmac hills;
lone wanderer on the range,
beating records and climbing
ever upwards
away,
white wraiths racing
across the plains;
drowning out feelings
with full-body sounds
and guttural car engine
growls.
Cascading down
and dipping a toe
in barely thawed
heartbreak blue waters,
prodding from a distance –
and tire squeal and off again into
darkening sunset skies,
homebound headed
in the direction of order;
exalting the sad
glamour of the
damaged;
melting into the seat,
feeling the bumps:
numb.
Juxtaposing photographs
in rear view,
brushing cobwebs off beauty
and reframing the present,
with its unticked boxes;
thoughts streaking by in headlight beams
painted across dim-lit nocturnes
blended into blackness
and disappearing into anaesthetic
nothingness:
wheels turning,
brakes screeching,
roads sprinting,
soul hurtling
into the night.
