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.