Dirty Motorways

Dirty Motorways

Value Coca cola and large tattoos

The bag is heavy filled with all sorts

That are not made of liquorice

In the aisle of the bus heads bob

Curious and fearful from expectation

Cowardice comes with semi-poverty

Too frightened of truth

Too grateful for calm

Needful of scraps

To eat

To watch

Time

Life

Pain

People

Travelling as strangers

Sleeping like babies

Resting in between chaos

On dirty motorways

Exhausted drivers

The winter sun flickering

Past leafless trees

And telegraph poles

The smell of sandwiches

And hope

Nobody talks

We all just think

And try to understand

Heartlessness

While the heart beats

The mind cheats

The mouth eats

As we pass streets

And lives in houses

And motorway hotels

Beneath the silent pale sun

Towards a destination

That is not made of what we wish

Author Notes: On a variable alphabetically ordered level I will endeavour to share through the weeks and months, fragments and shards of a collection of poetry that spans over ten years. It was and still remains always the conveyance of the essence of the time, thought, and place that inspires me to write poetry. An arguably arrogant attitude that sidesteps classical structures or poetic protocol. The raw needing poem always remains, at least to me personally, the slightly insane son of respected literary parentage. In that sense the process of sharing is therefore somewhat subliminal and therepuetic.

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