Like Pictures on a Wall

I like to read the crazed calligraphy of car tyres

on roads, the angry black swathes of rubber

on bitumen from burn-outs and donuts. What are we

to make of such marks, the road their canvas?

Do we elevate it to ‘outsider art’; Do we call them,

‘hoons’ or ‘street artists’? Do they love the smell

of burnt rubber in the morning as they furiously apply

the high octane brush of machismo? Do they,

I wonder, gloat over their works in the days & weeks

that follow, as if they were pictures hanging on a wall ?

• pic courtesy of pixabay by Jan-Mollander

Wolf Down

A few years ago I read a book called Wolf Hall.

Now I’m writing about Wolf Down

what the cat does with food when it’s been stuck

on the roof all day;

what we do now

wolfing down pleasure,

sunshine,

the great outdoors,

going for drives,

doing stuff together,

hoping to outfox the old virus for another day.

Please Don’t Call This Love

I’m not yr punching bag

Not yr piñata

So give me a break

what is it you are after

 

I’m not yr pincushion

Not yr whipping boy

so why are you so intent

on stifling my joy

 

Yr not my parole officer

you are not my judge

so don’t cross examine me

& please don’t call this love.

 

 

 

 

 

 

the Blow Off

I’ve had it with you —

You’ve had yr rations —

Your cheap lusts

And easy passions

 

* photo by vera arsic on pexels.com