The bikers
rolled in through
the fog
and smoke
of the cold midwinter
morning,
the revving of
the engines roared
like monsters hiding
in the darkness
of a momentary
nightmare.

One biker flicked
his *** into a
puddle licked by
frost, a quick death
to the fire
that once burned
so **** bright.
A metaphorical
device for life,
perhaps?
I think I’m too
drunk right now
to bother
with words.

One looked at
me with a sneer as
he rode past,
and I stuck my middle
finger up through
my beard and
licked the tip,
and I winked at him.
He growled a *******
as on he rode
and I laughed at my
joke, but no one laughed
with me.

They passed and all
that remained was
the silence and the smell
of burned metal
and the sweet
odour of petrichor
as the rain died a little,
but I was soaked
and alone, wondering
where the **** my
life went, where
all the friends I had
had gone to.

But I suppose
that’s just the way
it goes sometimes,
once you were on
top of the world,
king of the kings of
Kintore, and the next,
you’re lying in the gutter
staring up at the
stars with the back
of your head in
a puddle as a
*** end floats past.