Dirty Motorways
HoboDirty 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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