Monday, 3 January 2022

ode to the carhorn

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.


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