"gearshift" poems
Today I had a bout of acute-you shyness
one where I try to pretend I don't notice
but have you noticed how difficult it is
when outside idles but inside there's a race
to views like you leaning side to side
on the motorcycle ride slot machine
driving my eyes to sly around your slides
taking them wide as when I was eighteen
I'd look for curves at Southend pier's end
give out stares and start to take in scenes
of free amusement at the Fun Bump arcade
around and around the circuit you rode
I was lapping up your every move
sneaking a view through the coin drop
peeping behind the pinball of Dr Who
prying open the photo booth curtain gap
faux testing the mallet with your strength
playing air hockey with my thoughts
were your short chic bangs a wig?
they sit so still I long for the straights
then swing to one side with a leg
tight vibrant jeans in hairpin bends
ironing out where the centre line is damp
polishing the dashing leather saddle
vibrating with wrist twist contempt
loveliness revving up to red line
exploding in my face with daring
this bike crash heart of mine
please forgive not stopping staring
a race course habit never outgrown
I go too fast and of course I fall
in love as bad as deeply madly
but the fact that it's with you.. well
I have to forgive myself this malady
I'm a side-road heading for a spin
on ways to tell you you're beautiful
dangerously close I risk self harm
imagining that colour of pink and pale
the flush u-turn will be a charm
If I can get you climbing off
hot and flustered
I’ll have done my pit stop job
at once a chance encounter
and a fateful winning score
to let you know you've entered
into being my prize draw
I'll walk away but don't be sore
it's up to you to take it further
but just know one thing more
that if you call me to confirm
and tell me that I’m worth it
I would turn around so fast
the world would gearshift
and wait
but not in neutral
for us
Aug 8, 2014
Aug 8, 2014 at 1:30 PM UTC
Has it been four days now?
Must have been. Nearly a week
since I did the deed. It was dark,
and I was hurrying – I didn’t see
his form, the path in front of me.
My careless size-ten shoe came down,
and crushed his hopes and dreams.
My stride stopped mid-step. Sickened
by that sound, the chilling crunch;
I saw him, when I lifted up.
A tragic mix of slime and shrapnel.
And now – although you’ll doubt –
I swear he’s back. I am the mollusc’s
sole unfinished business
on this fast and brutal Earth.
You’ll say it’s in my head, if I report
that I can hear his death
in every mistimed gearshift,
every mouth devouring crisps.
But it’s not my conscience doing this,
it’s him. He’s putting me through hell.
I hear, with every step I take,
the breaking of the tell-tale shell.
Last night, I thought I saw him,
bright and cold, in death.
Slowly sliding next to me,
and felt his tiny, ghostly breath.
‘It was dark!’ I scream. ‘I was hurrying!’
His silence says it all. But still,
you don’t believe me? Come on round,
see the trails across my walls...
and explain the vengeful holes
in my fridge-ridden, cellophaned lettuce.
Jan 17, 2011
Jan 17, 2011 at 7:48 AM UTC
I find myself
scribbling little
words onto paper
trying to find a way
to explain my thoughts
and idiosyncrasies
to you. The way I look
at you, and the way
I take your hands into
mine as they clench
the gearshift, just to be close
to you.
Jul 20, 2012
Jul 20, 2012 at 11:56 AM UTC
An old man climbs into a vintage car
to smell the sweet upholstery,
caresses the steering wheel’s steel bars
and grips the gearshift **** of ivory.
He pulls the heavy door to close
it and hear its deep, dull iron clunk
that fuel-injects him with a dose
of chrome-clad metal hunks.
The streamlined car doesn’t move.
Still, it takes him on a favored trip
down a grey road well grooved
that his whitewall mind-tires firmly grip.
Its tires spin in grooves and sing
a well-pitched tune of rolling on.
Seams of concrete slabs now bring
the bumping heartbeat of this song.
His greying hairs match the road
which stretches out into his past,
leading him back in freeway flow
to a love that he’d made last.
For in a leather rumble seat
in a sleek car just like this one,
he’d kissed her hand and lips to greet
his sweetheart hunnybun.
She smiled as bright as high beams
at her motorheaded beau,
with wide eyes that stole his dreams
and made his fuel more quickly flow.
With hair like raven asphalt
framing lips in brake-light red,
in her saw he no faults,
but thanks to him, she’d end up dead
in a shattering crash
as they slid into a tree,
his youthful driving brash
and far too wild and free.
He swore to never leave
her by that bleak perditious street.
Resolved, he chose to grieve
her and keep the rumble seat.
So once a year he sits in this car.
He never drove again.
But each time it takes him far,
right to where his hunnybun had been.
Nov 26, 2024
Nov 26, 2024 at 7:51 PM UTC
“I like cars with big butts’ she said.
“The ones with soft interiors and big joysticks
That you hold while racing down at 70 mph
Down straight highways swerving through bylanes
And bursting into breeze and wide open spaces!”
Spent. The exhausts thunder . Throttles down and grazing
Hear the sound of engines purring?
“I like the old Mustangs” she said
“They growl back at you throttle deep,
Crunching up the pussycats
Mewing on the slow lane”
“I like tequila that’s naughty
No aftertaste, a coupla shots
A hot bonnet to warm you back
And a piston that does a six stroke
Slow ride
As we race to a finish on the salt lakes”
“ Don’t you like Mercedes?” I softly queried
“ Nah” she replied curtly.
“ But it starts with an M too?”
“Oh yeah, its got no twang in it though!”
I surrendered to the sound of giggles.
We pulled up near a parking lot
And she slid into a vacant slot
Both **** and front touching.
Menagerie of cars parked perfectly.
I admired her driving skill.
Author Notes
Yeah, its about cars. Get your mind outta the gutter will ya?
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved.
Apr 7, 2014
Apr 7, 2014 at 12:28 AM UTC
I raced a hawk
On the way home.
I had the gearshift
Under my trembling knuckles
And a deserted highway
Waiting for the impact
Of my screaming tires.
The hawk was armed
With the open sky,
Three dimensions in which
He could escape gravity.
Unlike me, he came
With his own wings.
It was actually fair,
Or so I contend.
Both of us masters
Of our respective elements.
Both of us feeling
Absolute freedom, but in
Our totally different versions.
Neither he nor I
Will ever know who
Won and who lost.
The race itself is
The only thing that
Actually mattered to us.
Feb 17, 2016
Feb 17, 2016 at 7:40 PM UTC