I wept in the car
the streets didn't give a fuck
but I know you do
our love knows no bounds
Phi Aug 2
This is how I die
blinded by the light
that reflects off the rain
in puddles
in front of the car
I don't like even like driving, so like this like kind of like nonsense just like makes me like sick
dewdrop Jul 31
no, your job’s not over — i’ll let you take over now.
grab the wheel and change the lane — speed the car, charge the gas.
i won’t laugh anymore, hurt me all you want — i’m giving you control.
[you’re about to run them all off the roads]
passenger’s seat is just fine. it’s almost easy to be in the front view then look through the back view.
now every time we get to a red light you act like you don’t see me there, telling you to stop;
[yeah, you’re not trying hard enough]
but i’m not going to slow you down. [though, you’re going too fast]
some people just want action, you just need action.
if you want action so bad why won’t you come over here?
a mixture of inspirations
Josh Jul 26
What's the smallest living being on earth?
a graduate of music school
First class degree won with some leeway
but that can't pay for my MOT, no way
four hundred and thirty seven quid and 26p to pay
for new suspension ball joints and wishbone, wiper blades and an emission test pass grade
and now my car has scraped a "pass with defects"
I hope someone made a wish as the old bone cracked
as they took it to the tip with the entire contents of my bank account
I wish I was back home again, scared to answer the phone again
but now every phone call I'm praying for a gig.  

For nine grand a year I wonder how well she would do in the next few tests
if she'd have a long career ahead after a short rest or if she would still be run into the ground,
one day kicking the bucket at 90 miles an hour on the M4 back to Cardiff; I recently found
she won't quite make it to one hundred.
One hundred miles an hour!
Such power, so close, but no cigars for me any more - I can't even afford to smoke rollies.
When I'm seventy I'll start again
whether I want to or not, I need that one lifetime guarantee.
If I make it to seventy.
Hopefully boredom, rejection and masturbation aren't causes of early mortality.

Clutch sinks to the floor
like a drunk mini skirt under a clever pickup line

1st gear gives way
like an occasional lover

Gas feathers in
a subsonic prelude to a climax



down our suburban street
where sidewalks bend at the waist
bowing to cracked driveways

My single-minded objective
upended by his scavenger’s mission

Abrupt left
“we must get that free tub”
he says

On the curb
next to the faded plastic batmobile
a rectangular residue of frayed cobwebs and forlorn leaves
“son of a bitch”
dangles from his lips



tires crackle over loose asphalt
steering wheel taught

turning down the wrong street
bewilderment derails my one track mind

“lawnmower shop”
he says

I’ve known him long enough
not to ask questions

We have an understanding
without understanding

Sun splatters across my forehead
an uncomfortable hot mess
the cracked window is of little comfort
as I await his return

He holds the door for a dusty landscape artist
pushing an unwieldy grass-cutting machine
purring across the street
late for the day’s rounds

Wordlessly, he returns
landing softly on his leather throne
key sliding, kissing the lock cylinder
willing forth internal combustion


Finally the bike shop
Saint Audrey Jul 21
Casualty: my interest fading
Once waxing moon now seen waning
And I did concede your irksome warning
And watched as the rest played out


So let bygones be gone, fallen out by the side
Of this road, worn down, still restless, keeping straight
Eyes glinting off token little bits of hospitality
Mother nature being so inclined at times

The stress so unnerving, I hardly doubt it
But tension is eased once it comes to acceptance
And I accept in full, finding time to unwind
Winding stretch of lonely road, dotted here and there by
An occasional landmark
Or a lonely tractor pulling behind it
Iron bars, old and rusted
Found in their hold
Bales of hay or
A small little pond
With a bench beside it
Holding initials carved against the grain

With a heart surrounding

As mine beats slower

At last, the sun begins going down

And the moon grows brighter
Even in its state
And my feet move faster
Though my body is withering
I feel this separation growing
As my mind takes flight and leaves me

Behind, in the twisting twilight
And alone, I walk along
svdgrl Jul 13
You always scoop me up with a smile and a wink.
I can't help the smirk that comes in sync,
You open your broken door to let me in
You're straight out of work and you still hold the scent
of the day on you, and we're spent but still I stay on you.
And I don't need to know, but I'll ask "How was it?"
while you're driving through our cities,
for you, I wasn't just a way, I knew.
I stare at the green patches and the spills of blue,
we listen to the radio and I listen to you,
lips glisten as grass and morning dew,
tongues run along them fast, and we have a clue,
and we glance way up ahead, as the cars come to a slow
you lean over and press them to me, under the red glow
You've a hunger and my lips abundant-
a feast, for plunder, and it's no wonder
under the disguise of your caddy sedan,
you're the man whom I call daddy,
a dirty man with a solid plan
and we'll drive by some thirty friends,
and park down and around the bend,
and scramble in through your basement door
even though it's no secret anymore
We'll say hello to your mother,
pretty sure she knows I'm your lover-
and though I hide the shame
cause I don't wanna be lame
My name in your parted mouth
And you in mine, hard down south,
makes for an even better night
than kissing at all of the red lights.
(do enjoy frolicking gently imaginatively)

County seat, of Mason County,
   Washington, United States
westernmost city on Puget Sound
   above ground sans tectonic plates

population 9,834 per 2010 census
   end result from biological mates
maintains commission form
   of government drafted by mandates.

Shelton served by small steamboats
   comprising Puget Sound Mosquito Fleet
Old Settler, Irene, Willie, City of Shelton,
   Marian, Clara Brown, & S.G. Simpson
   logging, farming, dairying, ranching
   & oyster cultivation for populace to eat

Simpson Timber Company mill
   on Puget Sound's Oakland Bay over yon
   dominates landscape of the down
   town area as essential heart beat
Shelton identifies the "Christmas
   Tree Capital" sold by the ton.

47°12′49″N 123°6′22″W (47.213702,
   -123.106088) coordinate bench mark
   total area of 5.9 square miles (15 km2),
   of which 5.6 square miles (15 km2) land

0.3 square miles (0.78 km2) (5.60%)
   water laps with an occasional errant shark
   in a pinch captured, processed and canned
a delicacy that fin de siecle bony
   illegal booty fined by the oceanic narc.

well nigh two and a half decades in the past
   this poet trekked across America
   beginning in a place called Gap
Pennsylvania  - where stockpile
   of Amish goodies barely did last
   and vanished in a gingerly snap

of fingers, which necessitated
   sustenance when van fueled i.e. gassed
   up while myself or the other
   driver stole a short nap
seduced to sleep by syncopated tires

   as highway miles passed
   inching closer to youngest sister
   via this linear transcontinental lap
destination Seattle Washington
   indigenous iconic statue cast.

Ronald Strickland a fine companion
(posted bulletin for traveling fine companion
at Hostelling International - Chamounix Falls Mansion
West Fairmount Park),

   and boone story teller to boot
about my age (now five decades plus nine)
   then trying to rake in some loot
by writing about his travels,

   yet unpretentious and not able
   to square an Apple pi circle
   nor, calculate square a root
perhaps one day, I will surprise him
   with a call and give him a toot.
Driving up slowly...
Park across the street.
Nobody should know where we meet.
Walking up slowly...
Wishing I was drunk.
At least that would explain my funk.

Now I’m peering,
Peeling off my skin.
There’s no healing;
It’s a game you can’t win.

Now I’m driving up slowly...
And making myself go home.
The things I do,
To let myself roam.
Now I’m driving up slowly...
Two hours before I’m home.
All this effort...
And nothing to show

Writing silently...
The words aren’t coming
Like I planned.
I pray someday that someone understands...
Because I don’t.

Driving alone,
Driving alone.
Home is not so lonely...
When I’m driving up slowly.
So, I’m coming home.
Yes, I’m coming home.
Sometimes it takes a tryst to realize where you really belong
Graff1980 Jul 1
He’s been on the road
coming home
Arizona flagstaff
wearing his
jury rigged knapsack
with plastic
and cloth bags
strapped together
by an orange cord.

Sixty something,
tan skinned,
and missing teeth,
I find him
on the off ramp
as I head out
to work.

Sign says Springfield
but he is trying to
get back to
I almost pass him by,
but I remember
a younger guy,
the good man
I used to be.
He asks me to be
kind again.

I tell him
I’ll drop him
halfway there,
but he offers
a traveler’s perspective
and excellent conversation
so, I take him as far as I am going.

We roll in
just in time
for him to miss
the storm coming,
and part with
a handshake
and goodwill,
I forgot how good
that feels.
Next page