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RH 78 Feb 2016
Bumper to bumper.
Stormy rain.
Strong gusts of wind.
Bridge closed again.
Anti clock wise delays.
Bored of radio.
Stuck in the traffic.
Light blinks...
                      Fuel low....
                                           Oh no!
Stuck on the M25 in the UK again! How can a bit of wind and rain ******* our infrastructure?? Inspirational madness.!
Liz Oct 2015
Feel like my life is when you're driving on the motorway, everything is grey and the same and there. And you occasionally smile and people in other cars but you can't reach them, and you're meant to be on the way to somewhere but it feels like you'll never reach it.
ak Mar 2014
Not much compares to the beauty of a motorway

the perfect example that the most beautiful things can be the deadliest
Nigel Morgan Nov 2012
(with poems from the Chinese translated by Arthur Waley)

My bed is so empty that I keep on waking up.
As the cold increases, the night-wind begins to blow.
It rustles the curtains, making a noise like the sea:
Oh that those were waves which could carry me back to you!

Suddenly she was awake. She could feel a cool breeze on the cheek that wasn’t warm on her pillow. She could smell the damp fields, the waterlogged moorland and the aftermath of recent rain. The action of rain on wood or stone seemed to release particular vapours wholly the province of the night in a small town. There was also the not entirely welcome residue of the past evening’s cooking from the kitchen below. But such sensory thoughts were overwhelmed by the rush of conversation clips; these from a day of non-stop voices that had invaded and now occupied her consciousness. She had listened furiously all day, often fashioning questions as the listening proceeded, keeping it all going, being friendly and wise and sensible and knowing. She could hear her tone of voice, her very articulation in the playback of her memory. It was so difficult sometimes to find the right tone, that inflection suitable to different aspects of ‘talk’. She didn’t want to appear pompous or too serious. That would never do. The thing was to be light, but intelligently light so her colleagues would say to one another – ‘Helen is a treasure you know: brilliant person to have on the team. You can always rely on her. ’ She knew she was often anxious for approval, for a right recognition of her efforts, to be thought well of. ‘Doesn’t everybody?’ she thought wistfully.

There was a momentary flurry of what Helen often dreaded when she found herself awake at night – yesterday’s embarrassing moments. These invariably began with ‘Am I wearing the right clothes?’ It was Caroline’s jacket that came to mind first. That mix of informal but simply smart that can only be bought with serious time and a clear conscience with the credit card. Her favourite blue affair (mail order) with big pockets and the slight pattern on the hem suddenly seemed very ‘last year’. Anna had chosen all-over black, loose trousers with a draw string, no jewellery, but flashy sandals and make up. She’d painted her toenails green. Helen did make up – a little, but not to travel in. She knew she had the right shoes for a long day. Then, those first conversations with Paul, who she’d never talked to outside a meeting before. ‘Keep it light, Helen’, she’d say, ‘Don’t say too much – but then don’t say too little.’ She had found herself – her independent womanly self, speaking with an edgy tone she didn’t always feel happy about. As she spoke to Paul about the coming evening’s football – he’d brought it up for goodness sake – she found herself being funny about the inconsequence of it all, then remembering the passion with which people she knew and loved followed the intricacies of this sport. She saved an own goal with some comment about the game’s social significance she’d picked up off some radio interview.

As the long journey had proceeded she’d been able occasionally (thankfully sometimes) to fall into observation-only mode. There was this sorting of images into significant, memorable, able to forget about, of no consequence at all. She’d been caught by the strange geometry of yellow cones that seemed stitched onto the rain-glistening road surface. There had been a buzzard she’d glimpsed for a moment, a reflection of Sally in the window next to her seat, that mother and her new born in the Ladies at the services, the tunnels of dripping greenery as the coach left the motorway for the winding minor roads, then the view of a grey tor on distant moorland followed instantly by the thought of walking there with her sketchbook, her camera and his loving company, with his admiring smile as he watched her move ahead of him on the path; she knew that behind her he was collecting her every movement to playback in his loneliness when they were apart.

Oh how she wished for his dear presence in this large half-cold bed, as the dark of night was being groped by dawn’s grey. There and there, and now the pre-dawn calls of local birds before that first real chorus of the dawn-proper began. She thought of them both on their last visit to this ancient countryside, being newly intimate, being breath-takingly loving, warm together for a whole night, a whole day, a whole night, a whole day . . . the movies in her mind rolled out scenes of the gardens they’d visited, the opening they’d attended, all that being together, holding hands, sitting close together, sitting across from each other at restaurant tables (knees touching), always quietly talking, always catching each other’s glances with smiles, and his gentle kisses and slight touches of the hand on the arm. She began to feel warm, warm and loved.

As she was drifting back into a shallow sleep she remembered his voice recite (in the Rose Walk at Hestercombe) that poem from the Chinese he loved . .

Who says
That it’s by my desire,
This separation, this living so far from you?
My dress still smells of the lavender you gave:
My hand still holds the letter you sent.
Round my waist I wear a double sash:
I dream that it binds us both with a same-heart knot.
Did you not know that people hide their love,
Like a flower that seems to precious to be picked?
Two poems from the Chinese quoted here are taken from Arthur Waley's translation of One Hundred and Seventy Chinese Poems published in 1918.
Steve D'Beard Nov 2012
Balcony Life:

Sometimes I just watched outside, and it was a glorious day.
Children actually played. Groups sunbathed and basked in beer
Ice-cream vans were heard not far from here
Above a plane heading somewhere etched its mark
traced in nothing but just plain blue sky,
for miles, as far as the eyes could see.

Up the motorway, the sun ignites on speeding sunroofs
Toward the Campsie Fells set in a haze of bottle green
The white trickle of yesterdays snow cut like some dyslexic ancient symbol
A place for misspent youth and baking trays on icy days

A hot cheap brand coffee in a chipped petrol-token mug
Perched on weathered wrought iron painted brown like last year
Meant so much in that moment grasped and shaped like glass with glee
I remember that there is life in this here estate sometimes
Watching as you do,
from your own slice of life on your patch of balcony
Tansy Roake Dec 2015
The rolling waves of the motorway,
Stretching on to the horizon,
Yet still clawing at my mind.

You perpetuate my insanity,
Fueling the destruction of my flesh.

Yet when you are absent,
Rest will not come with silence.
nivek May 2017
one day your blood will run dry
your heart a shrivelled peach
and your skull will grin for eternity
if your lucky, that is

someone may come across your name
but it will only be just that
nothing more
a name among many.

centuries will come and go
and you become more and more dust
an overgrown patch of dirt
next to a motorway.
Bob Horton Aug 2013
Motorway Lamppost
Buzzard with his Evil Face
Watches the Rushhour
Donall Dempsey Mar 2019

Motorway sign says:

Sign coming into town says{

Reality appears to be

And there they all are
long forgotten Thursdays

that nobody wants
no more.

So many used Thursdays to
choose from.

A much used Thursday
from 1963.

A forlorn Thursday
from 1863.

Thursdays come and

No one will want a Thursday
their dog died

or the wife
left them

or the Wi-fi
went off.

Rainy Thursdays
that nobody wanted

even as they were

But there's a big rush on
the Thursday to come.

Everyone wants to have

We leave the Thursday

with the next Thursday
in the bag so to speak.

It's up to us
to make a good go of it.

It ticks away.
Time tickles.

Motorway sign says:
Joe Halliday Jan 2012
The young boy looked puzzled
Sat slumped in the car
A day trip to Grandma's
Roadsign : Not far

To his curious child's question
No answer replied
This proud, Grey Englishman
Watched chevrons, sighed
JG O'Connor Jun 2017
Where is death today?
Busily hiding the bodies,
Or hunched beside a car loosening wheel bolts,
Placing a dark hand over a traffic light,
Squeezing the shotgun trigger,
Or strapped in a wheelchair
Disguised as a patient and wheeling rapidly around the hospital wards,
Removing the soap.

Or maybe cycling down the motorway
The large black cloak neatly bundled into the waistband
Right trouser leg tucked into a black sock
A bone poking out the toe
The Reaper strapped to the bicycle crossbar
Blade hanging to the rear  
But not obscuring the red reflector
Wearing Kevlar gloves when handling the scythe
And Vis a Vest neatly tied with a bow
At the very least a reflective armband.

Or possibly fixing a puncture on his way to my home...Bad form then
On arrival should I greet with “Come in, you look perished! ”
Discuss the weather as a distraction
I could offer new socks
Like every interview this might not go well.
Marshal Gebbie Oct 2010
Dedicated to the Steelers who do their hard work so well.

The Pier five superstructure
Looms above the turgid waves,
Gothic cranes do hover close
To service needs of orange knaves
Who swarm to manufacture,
Who work to make complete
This massive bridging edifice,
This mighty engineering feat.

Cathedral like in grey austerity
Freezing zephyrs howl and blow,
Through the maintenance shaft tunnels,
Through the bridge's bowels go.
The catacombs are echoing,
Stark light's reflection deep
In corridors of baleful concrete
Through which angled cause ways sweep.

A forest of reinforcing rods
Stand starkly high and straight,
Atop adjacent pylons
Which arise from deep mud's gate.
Hazard lights are flashing
Amber, green and blue
As north east gales bring pelting rain
To obliterate the view

The tattooed hands of black skinned steeler
Twitch the wire to make the loom,
Lattice works of reinforcing
Blackened mesh of iron entombed.
Hard to fathom steeler's chatter
Bending low to twitch by feel,
Working fast in noisy unison
Twitching reinforcing steel.
Pliers flash in rapid movement
Wrist's convulse in rapid slap
Unintelligible chatter flows
But the job is finished, just like that.

Skill saw screams in echoed silence
Booming blows of hammers pound,
Pipe work's resonance percussion
Tempered by a sad song's sound.
Great concussions pound the air
As towering cranes do drive,
Enormous pylons into mud
And bedrock's solid hide

The mighty form travellers moving
High above cold estuary waves,
Reaching forth for unbuilt mana
It's red extension arm enclaves
Providing for the next poured section,
Providing for the next steel work,
Reaching out for firm embrace
Where Pier four's form travellers lurk.

The pungency of solvents spread
Across the steel plate, made to last;
Barrier to adherence of
The sticky concrete's surface cast.
The form work archway's wooden shell
Adopts a high cathedral stance,
This bride in waiting nervous for
The concrete pumps lithe serpent dance.

An unyielding environment
A hard surfaced place to be
Where materials of venom
Are handled casually.
Where massive superstructures
Unforgiving in their stance
Lead the busy, ant like steelers
In their lofty, hard days prance.

To look across Pier Five's expanse
And view the surface cant,
And visualize the future motorway
With it's headlong traffic rant;
And look again at what is spread
Across it's surface now,
At the jumbled reinforcing steel,
The cables, tools and how,
Organizationally chaotic
The whole affair appears ???
Whilst in actuality, my friends,
This clockwork sequence has no peers.

With the roar of passing traffic
As the headlights flash on by,
And the Pier's massive cantilever
Looms impossibly to sky.
One must praise the skilled designers
And those engineers of skill
Who summount vast odds of nature
To scale this monumental hill.
As this mostrous concrete edifice
Claws inexorably from tide,
To loom in towering sillouhette
Where estuary mists abide.

Manukau Harbour Crossing
29 June 2009
cheryl love Apr 2014
Remember me always
will you?
My cute little smile
and my unselfish ways.
Never forget me
will you not?
The love
that oozes from me.
Have in your head
my funny little sayings
I am not very tidy
but does that matter?
When you are arranging the flowers
that sit in the vase on my grave
You know somewhere I will be thinking
Will they be Forget-Me-Nots
Because I will remember
if you will.
Has he got
the forget-me-nots.
I will perhaps whisper it in your ear
the chill of surprise will drip down your spine
but the thrill will be all mine
when I see the forget-me-nots.
When you are travelling up and down the
motorway in your car regretting the time
you did not spend with me
Fear not, for I will be beside you always
Oh Lord let him read this before it is too late.
nivek Jul 2015
Tiredness can **** is emblazoned across the motorways
and the self-indulgent anger of some can **** the spirit of others
but you wont see a sign across the motorways warning of that
Edna Sweetlove Aug 2015
This is one of Barry Hodges' most inspired memories.

  'Twas morning time in times of yore and I, bold Barry Hodges, stood outside my store, my giant vegetables on display for all to see, when lo and behold! a luxurious limousine drew up, and from the back there emerged a gorgeous form of voluptuous statuesque feminity.
  "My God!" I cried, it is that beauteous lady from *La Dolce Vita
, the wondrous Anita - and I gazed with joyous on her divine body, imagining it sprawled lasciviously in my bed, legs open as wide as a major road junction on the M1 motorway.
  "Excuse me", said she in that Italo-Swedish voice guaranteed to make any man wet himself copiously, "But I am a-lookink for a shop a-called 6B, and yet all I can-a-see is a Barry Hodges' the Master Geengrocer's, complete with a giant cucumber or two, which I 'av to say remind me of somet'ing tasty."
"Dearest lady, said I, you have come to the right place: 6B is the trading name of my sister enterprise: Barry Bodgers' Boil Bursting Beauty Bureau which is located upstairs, Barry Bodgers at your service, my dearest, most delightful Fru Ekberg."
"Shhhhhhhhh! I am een deesguise, not even dear Federico knows I am-a-here." And thus, assuring her of my utmost discretion, and forming a bond by saying that I too, the famous Geordie seducer, Barry Hodges, had indulged in a slight nomenclatural change in order to separate the two sides of my business interests, and in order to do a spot of money laundering on the side.  "But," I enquired, "How is it that you have need of the rather specialised medical services we offer, you who are so radiant and bella-bella?" She lowered her eyes seductively and promised to reveal her terrible secret.

As I ushered her up the stairs to the studio, my eyes on her ****-cheeks wiggling like two delectable beach ***** in a sack, she told me the sad tale of the immense boil which kept recurring on the middle of her back and which no amount of corrective surgery could fix.
"Aha!" I exclaimed, "Only Barry Bodgers, the world's greatest boil-sucker, can effect the cure for which you long, and I shall operate on you personally, not entrusting such a task to even the best of my boil-bursting minions." I added to myself, "Also I want to give you a good old bonking while we're at at."

Once we attained the privacy of my consulting room, I instructed her to strip off utterly so I might examine her, and I can tell you, dear reader, that her **** **** was a joy to behold. I too divested myself of my clobber, knowing that boil-******* can get a bit messy at the best of times. Jesus wept!, but the mighty boil betwixt her graceful shoulders revealed when de-plastered was a true horror, with a yellow tip as big as a Grade One Belgian Turnip. I explained that I would **** it out whilst I rogered her from the rear and that, when she felt her ****** on the way, she should scream out to that effect and I would then bite the core of the boil right out in a blaze of mutual ******* glory, before applying a dose of my exclusive Boil Preventative Cream, namely a handful of our conjoined love-juices extracted from her gaping ***** by hand a few seconds earlier.
"Yes! Yes! Yes!" screamed the Swedish bombshell and with a mighty **** like an industrial Dyson FX334 on full power, I slurped and  razor-bit the boil, bursting it asunder, smothering my eager face in blood and putrid pus, thereby causing me to blow my *** as ne'er before. The green core of the boil emerged from its fleshly cavity with a deafening plop as we came together like a nuclear blast d'amour.

O, but only then, as my seminal outpourings soaked my jim-jams, did I awaken to discover yet another nocturnal emission. And, not unexpectedly, dear Nurse Nellie, having heard my cry of ecstasy, rushed in to my bedroom, head-shaking and tut-tutting as usual, as she knelt down and licked my tum-tum dry.
"Yum, yum" she murmured in her dulcet Northumbrian tones, "Ah've looked after three generation o' Hodges laddies, and I kin tell ye, your *****'s the tastiest of them all, ye bonnie wee man."
"Better than Grandad Charlie's?"
"Why aye, mon, yours is well creamier."
Corvus Sep 2016
When you're in the car, driving home or in the passenger seat,
And it's 3am, pitch-black skies
Tinged with the purple-ish glow of light pollution,
That's who we are in this moment.
The way the car glides over the motorway,
So smooth it's almost motionless,
And the engine sounds are so constant
That they become as soothing as a lullaby.
How the raindrops batter the car before fading,
Leaving their liquid exoskeletons clinging onto the windows,
And it feels like home,
Because this is where we leave our hearts.
I looked out of the window towards the open road,
And the rain makes the view slightly blurry.
It's the way the lights shine and glimmer across the road
In reds, whites and yellows, that's where we reside.
We're the blurred images of each other,
Clumsily reached for on nights that are pitch-black
Save for the pollution in our souls.
Maggie Emmett Nov 2016
Harsh wind screaming
with the crisp bite of Autumn night

Dark shadows dancing
with the branches of bare grey Elms

The lanes are winding
in the pale orange glow of headlights

Sudden hedgerows
edging the limits of the night

Power-cut darkness all around
strange in the headlight beam

No farm lights distant on the Tor
beacons of open field and place

Cottages shuddering their thatching
chimneys smoking message-morse

Pub signs banging wildly
in a crazy dance
inside candles flickering
patterns in tiny panes of rounded glass

Old stone steeple steady
dull toned bell
a ride on the wind to the copse

And still the lanes thread out
a ribbon of pebbles and stone
stretching into the night
until they melt
into the flat black tarmac
of the motorway.
A poem written about Swallowfield, Berkshire
Tommy Randell Nov 2014

In each of two cities
While one is burning
The other waits
For the call to help
And the quiet night
Is split only by the world
Flowing by on the motorway
Between them.

No flame is visible
On either horizon
And no alarm sounds.
No wonder is felt
In either city
Of the quiet destruction
Taking place in the streets
Or that no help is forthcoming.

So, Friendship and Love,
The twin cities burn
Where two new towns
Ignorance and Bliss will be built.
And two people,
Lives once charged
With hidden energies
Will holiday in distant lands.

Quiet cities are a sign
Of silences about to flare
As all silences will
Into flame
But something seen into
Cannot be unseen
A city alone
Cannot burn uncared for.
Ben Brinkburn Feb 2013
Stained asphalt
flickering sodium lights
pavement art
ambulance chasing
motorway drone
crushed cans and ripped pizza boxes
kebab debris
scared cats
gum scarred concrete
burnt out ******* bins congealed plastic
overflowing bottle banks
used condoms hung on a line
fox ****
streetscene collapse
bottles arranged along a wall one two three
one lone shoe
in the road
sealed up letter boxes one with a message
written in black felt pen on brown parcel tape
‘If you are bothering to read this
you a *******’
kicked in door
steel shuttered shops
burnt out wheelie bin one lump of plastic
very impressive
smoking employees behind the Co-op
one knows Barb thumbs up
I return the thumb
a woman shouting at a priest: ‘But all he wants to be is
a woman’
torn pages from a ***** mag ****** up arses
***** in mouths
piles of brochures newspapers flyers dumped in a doorway
a few quid scammed can’t get the delivery help
these days
someone parking a Audi nice and shiny
looks up and down the street
kids slumped smoking skunk outside the library
a derelict sat on a wall grinning *** in mouth
tells me I have a happy face and offers his bottle to me
I take it and have a slug
dog crapping in middle of wide clean pavement
someone walking past muttering
‘never in Peru’
I stand opposite my flat and think of bombs
and a cacophony of alternative universes
and small candles shaped like eggs
a bald headed postman drives up to the letter box
techno blasting from his little red van
Molly Upstairs shouts something unintelligible
before throwing a small package down
the postie watches it descend from the sky
and catches it
without a smile
these are the days of unwholesome atmospheres
but it’s all I have so I don’t mind
it’s better than being kept in a box
with the lid
sealed tight.
Donna Nov 2017
Driving along a
motorway , a winter breeze
chases fallen leaves
Very windy outside x
Marshal Gebbie Feb 2011
Orange hazards blink in gloom
Autumn mist in early light,
Traffic cones direct the flow
Attenuators keep it tight.
Through the mist construction looms
A mighty swath comes into sight
A structure massive, incomplete
Sweeps past the Birdcage portal light.

Burrowed deep within the Park
Surmounted by its stark white beams,
The tunnel curves towards the Bridge
To emerge near the Victory screens.
Symmetry in huge largess
Biblical in size and form,
Built by puny hands of flesh
Man inspired, conceived and born.

Columns in the concrete mass
Loom as sentries, side by side,
Level in majestic sweep
Through the tunnel’s corner glide.
Massive beams locked overhead
Cap the roof’s gigantic clasp,
Reinforced by gridlocked steel
Bound within the concrete’s grasp.

Mounds of blue, congealed wet clay
Layered in an old sea bed,
Hauled away from ancient crib
By Fletcher excavators red.
Roaring diesel truck and tray
Loaded overburden high,
Water blasted ***** and span
Keeping highways clean and dry.

Monstrous cranes with hanging rig
Lower weights of ponderous steel,
Gently to the tunnel base
Led by Dogman’s coaxing feel.
Urgency in every move
Hard hats drill with diamond core,
Fixing massive panel slabs
To the looming concrete’s bore.

Well below incoming tide
Pounded by the drenching rain,
Four inch pumps snake to the sump
Ensuring flood control’s maintained.
Foremen bark and keep control
Hard hats share a secret smile,
Safety first for every man
Think before you lift that pile.

Gate girls smile at passers bye
Politely chiding those who stray,
Holding up a halting hand
With trucks inbound in hazards way.
Smoko at the Bowling Club
Murmur of a hundred souls,
Grubby in their hi vis vests
Munching on the caterers rolls.

Morale amongst the working men
Is high because they feel the cause,
A project that is so worthwhile
They KNOW that it  deserves applause.
Traffic roars above it all
Passing in a steady stream,
Brake lights on the viaduct
Cop cars flash and sirens scream.

This project has a consciousness
A Heart, a mind, a soul.
And an inspirational spirit
Which guides us to the goal.
To eliminate the bottleneck
In Auckland's traffic day
And to streamline the system
Of our vehicular motorway.

Politicians snarl right now
Champing at the huge expense,
But by next year’s finish date
Congratulations will commence.
The jewel in the crown they say
Is found within our park of green,
The Victoria Park Tunnel, friend,
Is a true magnificence, to be seen.

Victoria Park Tunnel
5 February 2011
Nigel Morgan Dec 2012
There's a passage in a story by John Buchan where a minor character explains how a good mystery story is created: take at least three random subjects or events and connect them together. Here goes.
A toothbrush
Covent Garden
Interesting to let the mind float free and subjects appear unbidden, thought Marcus. The moon had risen and out at sea its reflections caressed the swelling waves. Calm the night after such a day of being about.
Gregory had phoned him, early. Marcus had been lying in bed. Sylvia had just returned from the bathroom and had folded herself into his arms. Their collective feet had conversed amicably as early morning feet do. She was still tingling a little from the passion they had shared, stretching herself languorously like a cat coming into the warm after a cold night out.
'Marcus,' said Gregory, 'it's today.' And that was all. The line went dead, but that was all he needed to know.
He extricated himself from Sylvia who was intent either on sleep or further love-making. She was incorrigible, but so so desirable.
I'll just take a toothbrush he thought as he swiftly shaved. He picked a new pink one still in its packet and put it in his bag with the papers, a map, his camera . . .
He thought about Ripley as he steered the car onto the motorway. That character fascinated him and he wondered if its inventor Patricia Highsmith had ever known such a man; a nice good-looking man, but selfish and nasty. Marcus wondered if he was selfish and nasty. He reckoned he was.
When he reached Covent Garden, parking illegally in Jermine street, he wasted no time in walking directly to Turino's. There, amongst the tourists and the out of town shoppers was Greg.
'I have this little package for you. Don't open it until you reach Southwold. Park in front of the Lion Hotel. Do nothing until she appears, which she will do after her lunch with the doctor. Then follow her. We think she'll go to Ben's. If she does we want the pictures . . . and as explicit as possible. Leave the package.'
It's at least two and a half hours to this village on the Suffolk coast. Until Ipswich he scarcely regarded the early summer colours, the plaintive skies, fields stretching to woods, the occasional grandeur of parkland.
He stopped for coffee at a services and called Sylvia.
'Hi Sylvia it's me.'
'Where are you? I was hoping we'd spend the morning together.'
'Well Greg called . . . I'm on my way to the seaside.'
'Oh . . . no time for Sylvia today?'
'Not today'
'if all goes to plan'
' You journalists, you're all the same . .'
But he wasn't. He was different. He didn't just write, he could investigate, uncover things, hack into mobile phones, get the compromising images.
Yes, she was going to Ben's . North, on the Norwich road. No hesitation. She drove fast. He had to have his wits about him. When she turned off the main road to the mill he carried on, then doubled back and two miles further on parked within sight of the building.
Her red car was there the courtyard. He decided on getting in from the garden so left the road for an adjoining field. Waist high in a profusion of grasses and wildflowers Marcus made his way painstakingly towards a collection of outbuildings, the indoor swimming pool, garages, an office.
The pictures were good. Both of them, together. The architect and the broker. Lovers, conspirators, thieves. They deserved everything coming to them.
He had entered the mill briefly. There were voices upstairs, a little laughter and then silence. He left the package on the kitchen table propped up against a vase.
They'd been following her movements for months after he'd taken his suspicions to Fred. Yes, he'd been so lucky. A wine bar conversation, an aggrieved employee, a few leaked documents and it all came together. And now this . . . the ****** stuff the paper loved.
He decided not to go back to Sylvia tonight but walk by the sea, let the gentle whoosh of water on the pebbled strand sooth his ruffled conscience. He had done his job. There would be other intrusions. Investigations, revelations. Mr Nice but nasty like The Talented Mr Ripley, he thought.
Watching the motorway
from the cafe'.
resting my feet of clay.
Under a sky of clouds,
that some may say,
have silver linings.
But all I can see is the grey.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2015
and like dante i’d write the geometric of heaven
likened to his hell,
although instead of the ix roundabouts
i’d write of the x winding paths,
harry potter en route 9 & 3/4
buddha between motorway 4.5 and 5.5
and jesus on the crossroads junction between 2.9 and 3.1.
of course i slow down sometimes, i figure,
write a boorish poem dependent on sloth,
write a prosaic poem in vain hope of mirroring equal speed
of the reader,
never write: poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world...
instead write: poets mediate all mediums of art the easiest,
and sometimes do more than the ostriches could
and attack philosophy.
but then there’s this memory i have of myself
sitting in a room with rodin’s kiss marble statue at tate modern,
sketching the statue from all the vivaldi angles,
just before the statue was given an s & m makeover
by cornelia parker, wrapping the statue in the next best thing
to leather gimp masks... petrifying sexuality like
that can scar the hardest metallurgy product, including my eyes,
the ******* rope will not make the hellish couple cling tighter...
but a mantis or a black widow overshadowing the couple
probably would to make the male petrified to stick to
providing for high heels handbags and feminism;
i know the modern word rope = ***** in pink,
but come on... the contortions are not even exfoliating under
the ropes...
i guess i never learnt the art of “pure” and “animalistic”
expression everyone is into... verbiage and all kinds of vegetables
for me it would seem...
moving in between different art forms with an eel slippery ease...
giving due admiration for composer, visualizer, synchroniser,
post stamp / card artist, metal techno indie rapper, busker
and prose exerciser - it’s not that we leave our footmarks
almost idly, almost too infrequently, almost too lightly,
it’s because we are changing lanes on the motorway of sounds & colours,
while people like tolstoy and stephen king are stuck in
the traffic of prose, while people like beethoven and mozart
are stuck in the traffic of music -
but never you mind that quote from picasso...
that quote: all children are artists; the problem is how to remain
an artist once you grow up...
well... there’s an answer to that... retain a childish element
in your art... like picasso did in his work although womanising like
a strong alpha gorilla balancing both testicles in the abyss
of the crotch and a coconut on its head...
perfect cubes with triangles and squares on rectangular canvases...
or start talking like salvador d. about the paranoid expression
using sniffs of ammoniac substances to remember the stench of cows’ **** in the surreal.
René Mutumé Mar 2014
I smoked. There was a good hand in the sky. It looked like a peach draped over tatty buildings. Hemisphere broken open at the end of a fist, and then at the end of an arrow shattering the pieces of night surrounding it, as the moon clouds shot, devouring it.

I flicked my cigarette down on the floor of the fly over instead of flicking it into the avalanche of cars below. Who knows what something as miniscule as a flying tab **** might make a person think. It would not be a fly. It would be a tab ****. It would be something that distracted a driver on the motorway, which they traced back to my finger flicking it.

It would be rude and imprecise, a car loses control and then flips over for a second, then paints the carriageway with ten multiples of itself flying and screaming. The driver flys inside the car. And I continued to cross the fly over. Outside the bookies at 10pm there is a dog looking up at me, his head tilts like he is asking me something, as he starts to follow me, leash dragging.

"Oi! Oi! Where the **** are you going?" A mouth from the ****** says, "Oh me, just down here." I reply, "I was talkin to the ******* dog you ******* mug." The gentleman added. The small white staffy was still looking up at me. Well, one of us is going to have to answer him, his tail said. "Oh ******* then." The mouth says changing back again into the building. "I guess we're going down there then." Schrödinger says, or 'Schrö', as he allows me to call him.

I light another cigarette as more arrows are fired from the sky, more like wet arrows now. "Well you'll need to pick up my leash mate; I don't want to look like a ******." Shrö says, "Ah sorry dude," I say picking it up as we continue to walk.

"Most of the people who talk to me are a little mad." The small staffy says. But why am I called Schrödinger? The staffy asks me. Ah come on, you don't get it? Well I do apologise but I am not that sharp on my quantum theory philosophy, and I am also a dog. Oh yes, I concede to him in my flat.  "Do you mind opening the door to your balcony pilgrim?" He asks me next.

"Sorry sir?" I ask him, "Well it either goes on your floor or I do it outside." He says. I open the door as he asks, and then lean against the frame as he takes a ****, and I watch him. He scrapes his hind legs on the concrete as if forgetting that it is concrete and not soil. You remind me a lot of love, I mention to him, smoking.

“You know what pilgrim? I think I prefer the name Otto Gross.” The staffy says looking up at the mixing night and I hatch open a new can pouring some into his bowl on the balcony. Cheers love. He says. He puts his two front paws on the meter high wall where my balcony overlooks a junk yard, and begins to speak.

“There is my lover! As screamed across sense and filled with conjoined gait, of my eye and hand, I am jealous of the city she walks in, by me, as I am half departed, myself, near a fox that gathers in ball, by me and is a better *****, than me, here, so I learn, from vermin, how to hide, how to fight, and how to re-appear. How to have humour, like theirs, and there unplanned joy-“

Woah “*******”, I’m spewing, a poet dog! A pile of dosh in the equilibrium! I rush back into my flat and grab a pencil and paper, shake a bit, take a sip, keep on listening, then nearly fall **** forwards returning to the balcony scribbling. And there’s a ****** dog talking.

“I trit-trot across roads with my last owner, winning jobs only within tasks of cemetery light, inside and on, the wall; so curled so, as I sleep outside, so sojourned within, grey dusk, car rivers- I spit! Not so far as giants can, just a piece of spittle, just shadow puppets dancing, just marionettes laughing-”
Schrödinger sang on my balcony beginning to howl, making the lid of the box open.

“To ******* the rain. To share within it, its fire, its knowable drench, of skin like hymn, that is so far penetrating, and mingled past flesh, opened and quakeless to the onslaught of lightening swans! The quickening fury, of several slow days, and lives, devouring the metronome of salutes, upon heart buildings coming down like tetrahedrons drawn by many hands, of dusk filth opening to the arrays of data goods and gods, and produced from the pockets of gibbous mooned skies, and I whisper to the tsunami: mood unhung, bellowing away from the dog fights, and unpainted streets, I seem: To be praying...”

Monday may come soon I doubted, watching the staffy speak.

“Planets growing teeth, in the stars and the junk-yarded iris, succour comes, and so do the sad journeying flies, flying in the mouth of many gales, as extremities to the planet’s engine, affordable, losses, condensed in- and danced solarlessly -in, dances of mortuary, and wedding sung precipice, the edge of a gale, happy to blow my face, away, just gust gust gust! And yes. I do pray a little, and past holocaust of saccharine tune, our shame is forgotten in the simple, rhythms, of a cup- a hand, a castle flock of gulls, landing in water.”

A dog wags its tail because it has just shat, his owner gone, bag ready below ****, I feel streets clean with loving owners hostile to the madness, of the furious dozen dozen flies- lobotomised drool, ready and alive enough, to laugh, and if you are knifeless, maybe a lil knackered, from work - - we might haul up: eternity, my love, and have a lil more, humour! In our sheets and face and sky, an take a **** holiday, right where you are stood or sat, walking, or resting.

And there are no gods, but the ones that let you see them creasing their soft cheeks and aging beside you, together, letting time die, parapets soak in the weather, and say: ‘hey’, here are my bones, there has been a lot of twisting done, but all they need, is yours.
The Crow flies.
Along the 5th motorway car to car,
Past the French coast flying,
The ***** black winds, worn and battered
From the ride, the constant ride.
Truck to truck, warm to cold, stranger to friend.
Friend to Comrade.
Preaching my Gospel of love and peace.
The time has come for love and peace.

But the Crow still flies,
His nest destroyed long ago
His brothers and sisters scattered amongst the wind.
The cool, harsh, stinging sea air wind
Of Portsmouth, Southampton, Bristol.
Goodbye, so long, see you soon.

The Crow flies again,
Protected and blessed by Elohim.

The meditating Crow,
Calm to fly once more.
Is this the last?
He promises yes but his heart
Says the opposite;

Fly Crow ‘till you find a better world,
A peaceful world,
A loving world,

A Crow’s world.

So fly Crow,
Fly away and fly safe,
Preaching in the wind,
Travelling in the wind,

Crowing in the wind.
Ben Jones Apr 2013
Dennis was a citizen
A denizen, a resident
Of somewhere near a motorway
A hideaway most opulent
Ensnared amid the railway
And trail ways for motorcars
A haven from the modern day
The takeaways and trendy bars

But shattered in the summer morn
His rest was torn by hammering
Invading what was once inert
So to his curtains clamouring
He banished each to either side
He threw them wide with knuckles white
And saw in front of his abode
Across the road, a building site

A certainty within his mind
Did slowly wind his purpose tight
And with a grim determined jaw
Across the floor he took to flight
Descending stairs without a care
His morning hair resembling
A dandelion set to seed
In need of disassembling

He strode across his dining room
And snatched a broom which lay by chance
Against the table by the door
And held before him like a lance
He mounted his beloved bike
A cycle like no other made
And on a builder set his sight
With all his might and unafraid

He charged his foe at quite a rush
And with his brush, the builder smote
And leaping from his trusty steed
He did proceed to stop and gloat
Before resuming in his spate
The builders mate did turn and run
To raise the dragon, JCB
It roared with glee and wheels spun

So Dennis, though his ears resound
With just the pound of noble heart
Did firmly stand and face the beast
His brow was creased and feet apart
He struck the creature savagely
And stubbornly with just his head
And that, according to the news
Was what the paramedics said

The End
The sign said no entry,it meant me,I know it,I rode on right through it and thought that I knew it
The policeman in a court date said that I, just would not wait for the lights to go green and he'd seen me do eighty in a thirty mile zone.
I was sent to a home for the wayward and flighty,a light sentence upon me,could not believe I was not free.

See me, on a saturday and I'm back on the racetrack,known as the M thirty motorway and I'm clocked at a ton by the feds in the lay by,who with sirens mad blaring came a tearing along after me,nicked,apprehended me and again,I could not believe I was not free,
I got four months in Dartmoor which get a poor recommendation,it's no picnic park for the youth of this nation,released in September,though it should have been May and soon after that in a 93 Fiat with go faster stripes,I was striped up quite rightly by the boys in blue and tightly,
handcuffed and roughed up and locked up again.
Steve D'Beard Nov 2012
Mile after mile
the endless motorway
spews out its metal contortions

hum your V6 engine
rock with impatience
under branded lime-green
sun strip protectors
brimming with breeders
of brooding black BMWs
7-seater convertible prowess
gleaming off-roaders
go faster striped boy-racers
silver slick steamroller Range Rovers
revving executive supremacy
nestled annoyingly
behind a Grand Jeep Cherokee

all stop in motion
by a pedestrian button
for a little old lady
with shopping,
And me.

So many people
in so many cars
gas guzzling
un-muzzled bulldogs
drooling to be first
the excesses of acceleration
the freedom to roam
to gloat or to garner

well you can all stay in line
with the press of a button
and a finger like mine
Moses in green spandex
parts the Metal Sea
for a little old lady
with shopping,
And me.
Marshal Gebbie Nov 2009
The peace in this seclusion
Of a tranquil park in green,
With stately trees of ancient years
And walkways in between
There's deep shade under foliage
With sunspots everywhere,
And a velvet sense of peacefulness
Pervading in the air.

Should you step beyond the green grass,
Should you venture onto seal,
An abrupt and harsh transition
Manifests, as quite unreal!
There's a cacophony of engine noise,
The headlong rush of cars,
A kaleidoskope of steel and glass
And frantic men from Mars!

The grind of wasted hours
With inertia breeding dread
And putting up with maniac's
Ignoring stop lights turning red.
There's a quagmire of congestion here
A head ache for the Tsar's
And for myriads of people
Who queue daily in their cars.

There's a White Knight in the future,
There's salvation in the air
For the God's of your deliverance
Will relieve you of despair.
They will forge a mighty tunnel
Deep beneath the grassy park
And divert congested traffic
Out beyond congestion's arc.

Melding with the motorway
To make breathing space for all,
The Victoria Park Alliance
Guarantees their clarion call.
Energetic men and women
Who are planning round the clock,
Engineers and excavator's slave
To work without a stop.
Concrete slab and steel amass
To build the tunnel strong
And sleek attenuators
Keep the traffic flowing on.

Salvation in the form
Of a tunnel underground
Beneath the spreading boughs
Of an oak in green surround,
Beneath the peaceful turf
Of a verdant park as planned,
Found amidst the million souls
Of Auckland, New Zealand.

Auckland City
New Zealand
6 November 2009
Daniel James Feb 2011
Life's the longest distance between two points:
Doggy-paddling through the present backwards
Understanding words already spoken
Right hand on the wheel, torso twisted
(As in standard reversal procedure),
Looking out the back, advancing slowly,
Careering backwards down the motorway:
We see ourselves in car windscreens becoming
Reflections of ourselves in passers-by.
Decode the numberplates, look out the sides
For chaos, chance and consciousness to coincide
And tell us that we haven't missed our turn,
Forever facing where we can't return.
Marshal Gebbie Oct 2013
Death drives fast in stolen car
Pursued en mass by cops afar
Down motorway of he and she
Who drive in innocence, legally.
Colliding in cascading mess
Of debris, dust and huge distress.
Face down upon the tarmac now
Handcuffed with glock at bleeding brow.

Whilst winding through a country glade
An opulence of deep, green shade,
A confluence of peace and quiet
Where nature’s art, in beauty, riot,
Where squirrels dart and rabbits munch
In turquoise grasses, lush, for lunch,
And sunspots sparkle in the shade
This place where poetry is made.

Juxtaposed, the concrete hash
Where ranting politician’s clash,
Where each, determined to be right
Adopts inflexibility's fight,
To hold to ransom common sense
Whilst seated stoically on the fence,
Committing all to farce and pain
Whilst pointing to another’s blame.

White waves wash the pristine sand
Where in Bermuda shorts, I stand,
Soaking up the tropic sun
In holiday, now just begun,
Far out I see a distant sail
Which tells a fascinating tale
Of opalescent crystal seas
Caressed by mystic scented breeze.

Juxtaposed, is terrors threat
Caste worldwide through Islam’s net,
Despite the protestations made
By Clerics, genuine, dismayed,
Permeated far and wide
Through violent death’s perverted pride.
Causing misery obscene
Whilst rinsing hands in blood till clean.*

Hark, a lark on yonder hill
It’s song, so clear, enduring till
It ends in silence… so pristine,
That tears stream down my face, so lean
And gaunt, so filled with joy am I
With gift of lark song sung to sky,
A gift, so sweet and clean and pure
If juxtaposed, it will endure.

Portraiture of my yin & yan in this day.
4 October 2013
darling Aug 2013
The morning sun inaudibly arising,
Yo-yo weather, blue skies and rainclouds,
The familiar view of the long awaited landscape, evoking memories of many a week spent here before,
The warm feeling of - ‘home’
Shadows cast by clouds hovering eerily above a ‘witch’s house’, high on a mountain top,
Two hundred foot drops and winding peaks,
Dancing streams and wide lakes, the deepest shade of blue
Pedestrian cows crossing a motorway bridge,
The timelessness of the ever nearing estuary, lying in wait,
Our second home – the tin house with two doors,
Our place of wild strawberries and happiness and peace.
The estuary sand and the shallow-deep waters, as inviting as ever, gleaming as I walk on by,
The delicate beauty of fresh scented flowers, on a fine summer’s day,
Endless winding roads, following the sun trail, leading to a place far away,
Sheep on the beach, curious and shorn as the evening sun fades peacefully and the serein falls,
Evening serenity and the swell of the incoming tide,
The mystery of the island in the distance, far, far away.
Blankets and dreamscapes and tea in brown mugs,
And dinner cooked on an open fire,
The lights shining in Portmerion at night,
The noceur of the night sky, the silver-white orb, dancing gracefully amongst the stars.
Weird I know
but as I sit or stand and watch my beard grow
it seems to tell me of my days spent in an alcoholic haze or drug fueled cruise down motorways without an end,
yet through all this,my beard has kissed my face as if I,the Angel, was just another case of ,
Mistaken Identity ,and the beard becomes me, like it's using LSD and has a mind not of its own,but oh my,
how my beard has grown
as I have too
and all I have to do is reconcile this beard that stares at me through the mirror,I can see it's not an easy task,
but I ask in all humility is should I shave it off or wait and see and let it grow and If I do will the beard I see become the man that's me or something more?

I watch the shadow,seven o-clock, there's a knock upon the bathroom door and then it fades away along another motorway and LSD has got the best of me again.
Drugs are no longer the 'Hip' thing to do and as I am so hip and have an arthritic hip I don't do them anymore.don't you do them either.

— The End —