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Nigdaw Jan 30
I love the two wheeled demons
they are in my soul waiting
to let fly
all my inhibitions
I have studied them
coveted them
but the courage to be free
defeats me
as I see the smiling face of death
on the first hairpin bend
nick armbrister Nov 2021
Plane Bike
There was a man who was mad
He ******* wings onto a motorcycle
And went flying up high
The engine turned the prop
That was at the back

And the front was a rudder
His rear passenger was thin
For his plane bike was slow
With a 125cc engine
Going from A to B

No rush here 1500 feet up
Motorbike made plane
Land take the wings off
Ride where you want
No rush here...
from LIZARD SNAIL 124K
Nick Armbrister and other writers
Sa Weol May May 2021
A child begging to be with his dad,
Ride a bike going to the north,
Where her cousins are there.
Sitting in the front,
She saw her dad's hands getting calluses
from an hour biking,

Still seeing her dad with happy smile,
and she don't know why,
Maybe because of the smooth road they're taking,
or the pastures they're passing by,
Trees swaying so as their hair
As they contradicts the direction of the windy day,


The ways are getting longer,
But she let her eyes to freeze on the right side,
it passes beautiful sceneries,
enough not to get boredom,
Getting to the place,
She sees her father, though tired from a long ride,
Lots of stories to talk to her grandmother,
While she plays with her cousin,


This child step
on becoming years older than before,
Realizing that memory as more than anything,
to be treasured
now she misses her dad
while she's away from them,
working for long hours
not getting enough pay,
planning to get farther to them
to earn more than enough


But whenever I gets back to that time
where I used to beg to be with my dad,
I now know why happy he is riding his bike,
I just like to be a child again and go back home now.


-A.M.
Jaicob Apr 2021
"Get out,"
I was told.
"Leave my sight"
I packed a bag.
"Just leave"
I rode off.
"Come back"
I was chased.
"I love you"
My bike was taken.
"You can't leave"
I'm crying.
Your arms hold no comfort for me.
My parents say they love me... Is love chasing somebody away from their home and taking their bike?
Lily May 2020
I am on Mackinac Island,
Lying down on a big white lawn chair
In front of the Grand Hotel.  
The faint scent of fudge
Lingers on the air so I can almost taste it,
And my hair is getting constantly blown
By the wind that flows among the
Chairs, grass, and music.  
The music comes from the direction of the water,
Where an old style jazz band has
Temporarily set up shop,
Creating gorgeous silhouettes
Against the orange and pink sunset sky.  
The purring of the clarinet
Bounces off of me like the waves are
Bouncing on shore,
But even lighter than that,
Even lighter than the
Wings of the seagull trailing overhead.  
The clarinet drops in and out of sync
With the waves as the silhouettes start to
Bounce to the music.  
A distant bike bell dings,
But it matches so harmoniously
With the music that I don't notice it.  
Waves, bike, clarinet.  
Waves, bike, clarinet.  
A constant cycle interrupted only by
The saxophone and drums occasionally.  
Waves, bike, clarinet.  
The sun is set.  
Silhouettes turn to shadows.  
Waves, bike, clarinet.  
Waves, bike.  
Waves.
I hope you are all staying safe and healthy!  I can't wait for the time when we can go enjoy live music again.  Thank you for reading!
George Apr 2020
You are selfish, shallow, adrenaline seeking. Blind, short sighted, borderline death seeking.

Thrill catching, leathers matching, fuel flowing, shallow breathing.
The release of control, self preservation is screaming.

Your intrigue for the wild has brought you here. In seeking proximate demise your intentions are clear.

However is there more, to his bottomless hole? More than adrenaline, flight, the search for extol?

Could there be meaning found where reasoning retires? Is there space in this world for simply following desires?

Vast I’m sure is your strength of intrigue. Or fear of what if, what next, what indeed. The roads may be littered, treacherous, packed. But what really matters when all what ifs are sacked?

It’s the smell of the air, the fumes, the tires. Enveloping you whole, until you retire.

No question of when, how or why. No pondering which, what, wondering eyes.

Pure pleasure, indeed, is what we seek. Here and now, not bitter or bleak.

An antidote to chaos, here we have found. Me and my bike, 3 feet from the ground.

X
Ora Miedema Apr 2020
I went on my bike following the red thread.
Just like every other day, the one thing I ever had.
And so I went and the water next to me got so wavy.
And so dark, darker than darkest blue navy.

It won't cover me here cause there's no burning suffering.
When the red thread is covering my skin.
I can just keep on cycling.
Always singing.
About how I won't be ok.
It's not alright and it can never be fine.
Still this moment is always mine following the red line.

I went on my bike cycling and singing.
That is always ok.
So the burning will finally stop stinging.
Like every single day.
05-03-19
Coop Lee Feb 2020
took his bike to the end of the street and disappeared.
he was laughing.

maybe today, just find a way
to bell the bones of magnificent fun.

she thought he was funny. he
took to the day like a wild oat.
took a bullet to the chest, still had long to go.

that old bless of a naked always-stretching lung
     [can we account for nuance?]
took.  took.  took.

holocene compounded, brain aneurism expounded.
he knew the city suffered, city slumbered, never, not ever.

your number? he asked her.
or about some kind of snake wrapped around the heart.

war chest, drum the chest, bone or breast.
twas rhythm, not explosion.
rhythm/blast.

city/socks/electronics.

the humdrum conundrum of ***, thumbs and time.
we are surrounded yet alone.
stone’d yet liquid.
remember the lung?

city/shoes/blood.

he thought she was funny.
stoop, stop to think about a text…
send.
Daniel Feb 2020
Far beyond the gable ends of dark suburban streets
Riding past the furthest flats where paths give way to fields

Where giant cranes with groaning frames are elevators into space
Looming over dark estates, unoccupied and halfway built
A regiment of vacant digs

Set out just like theatre props; a sort of play not yet begun
The porches laid with welcome rugs for when the future tenants come

And when they take up residence and get their keys and pay their rent
They'll surely never think of me as I have thought of them
The countless nights I've seen to spend, exploring every lamplit bend

Or how I'd trekked those distant places, before they'd laid the first foundations
Beyond the reach of tired feet, where fauns or fairies surely meet

The dark and curing plains are real and stretch for starry miles around
The rustle and din of windblown things, the rush of moonlit clouds

And soon from now when strangers come and pick the perfect house to live
And make it theirs and settle in and pick a room to put the crib
I'll stop the squeak of spinning wheels upon some distant mound or cliff
And moving closer to the lip; Dublin twinkles past the tip
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