ode to the carhorn
what skittish mess you cause
what british sense of politeness
you crush beneath your paws
of rudeboy heightness expecting
applause or a fight, day in, day out
to the depths of night, your rakish
presence feels like a keen bairn at
christmas, robbing the sense of
expection of a still-lake-ish calm
for your barmy driven down little lane
thinking’s just, sinking your teeth into
that little gap while the good folk nap.
the sirens, agreed, bare square a
response time understanding that
lacks in your hooter time-lapse blast.
for all the world’s an ass in your eyes
pluralised when frustating through
the day to days’ glittering prize
of yards, mere yards are your kingdom
but sing them you will through
shrill and unexpected yet
entirely predictable vents of spleen
unseen by the resident eyes
cutting trees and pulling up bikes
by the dozen unseemly low tone
notes from your trumpet of arrogance
your flute of unbearable shalowness
in a game of tiny gains, your sky team
tour-de-france mentality may frame
this petty victory as some kind of podium
spot by an angel in lipstick with tulips
and prize money and a change of jersey
where two lips supply a tattoo of red that
says both look at me and I’ve got what
you’ve not on the champs-ellisse of life,
an extra five minutes to peruse some
supermarket tripe.
