Tuesday, December 12, 2006

Sub-part A - Mulch Mouth tells of . . . Dead Girl

Dead girl rose from slumber,
Bleary sleep weary eyes,
Nerves still night numb,
Assisted by warbling alarm clock,
Set at seven am by choice and preference.

Not actually dead, not yet,
She still had choices to make,
Or so she believed.

Cereal? Or toast?
Juice? Or coffee? Or both?
Dead girl made choices,
Or presumed she did.

Faded black jeans? Or new?
But always black,
A choice of habit.
Expressive clothing of weary bleakness,
Hiding a cheeky bleak inner soul.

On with the day!

Optimistically pessimistic,
Knowing empirically its all shit.
But always hoping, that maybe,
Just maybe…

A decision made, a ride into the city,
A frivolous journey to buy unneeded perfume,
A self-treat, a shopping adventure.

On with the leathers, faint scent of petuli,
Out with the bike, smelling of power oil and petrol,
1100cc two wheeled race tuned demon,
Matt black by choice and design.

Mount and straddle,
Tenderly gripping tank,
From knee to thigh,
A kick, a twist,
A throbbing growl,
A spurt of road grit and away.

Highways? Or byways?
Another choice,
But no choice.
No fun no skill on highways.

Tonne up on the straights,
High sixties in the curves,
A rip roaring, tire screaming,
Adrenaline rush ride.

Slicing through tunnels of trees,
Leaves twirling in her wake,
Quiet country roads through woods.

Boy traipsing the tree line,
Battling the ancient foe, boredom,
Thwacking an older enemy, nettles.
A flash of fear on his young face,
As demon black bares down,
Flinging himself back, as bike roars past,
Involuntary hurling his nettle battering stave.

Stick strikes,
Penetrating spokes.
Block, jam,
Lock,
Skid.

Bike flips,
60mph bronco,
Dead girl flies,
Transitory ebony butterfly,
Drawn to a tree,
To embrace,
Like a hippie,
Or radical conservationist,
A face plate popping,
Rib cracking,
Pelvis shattering,
Tree hug.

Motorcycle followed mistress,
Striking higher,
Snapping branches,
Stripping bark,
Tank rupturing,
Fuel flying free,
Ensuing petrol mist,
Enveloping hot engine and exhaust,
Explosively igniting,
Dropping flaming wreckage,
On not quite dead girl below.

A few final breaths,
Of flame scorched air,
And that’s that.

Dead girl is.


5 comments:

Eleuktra Starsoft said...

That's rather excellent.

Jane Poe (aka Deborah) said...

Interesting ideas about fate, choice, consequence. Dead girl is. Quite owerful. Much peace, JP

BlueWolfess said...

INDEED...QUITE.

Inconsequential said...

Hi Blue :)

Good to see you :)

Anonymous said...

My visit here. WOW!

Interesting thread to start with the day and follow until "dead girl is."