Just climb onto the back of my Harley
And we shall ride to the songs of Bob Marley,
In no time at all
We'll be in Senegal,
Though I might stop for lunch in Kigali.
Nigel likes to talk about planes
And trains and motorbikes.
He has a few friends
Who like the same.
I say to him: "Why does the piston go up and down?"
He tells me,
But I don't really understand.
I go back to my poetry books
And let my imagination soar.
While Nigel gets on his bike and makes it roar.
Erroneous mirror scatters his face
Mills his skin into thin porous powder
Muck which gets stuck under tongue in a paste
Mouth stuffed with rubble cement rancid sour
Embalmed motorbike tennage champion
Mist cobwebs in his chest, windless clothesline
Murdered dreams dumped, tight vertibre cramp them
Measure of failure in winnings' decline
Engine never to rev segments ego
Mourning whip lashes languish in his lungs
Molten moon drips millions he forgoes
Mortality unknown among airborne young
Moonbeam diamonds stall, star status dements
Ebb of ignition rides midnight lament
Sixteen year old Hero, Matty
K-iss the fog farewell,
H-aze and mist are gone;
I-n twenty-sixth January,
M-orning meets the dawn.
M-idnight moon has turned
I-nto a sunny Thursday;
G-ray clouds Wednesday fade,
U-nderneath the skyway.
E-fforts of the rain are foiled by the sun and sky alike;
L-et the well-paved way welcome your motorbike.
I was stuck in the back of a small car again,
Not enough air, raging heat, suffocating sun,
Thinking of physical exercise, freedom and poetry,
And of the French and their liberty run.
I spoke English sometimes with a speech problem,
But I always spoke French without,
So stars collided when a man on a motorbike,
Pulled up, and in French directed us with clout.
It was in Ibiza where we were holidaying,
Having persuaded mum and dad to go,
But being so confined in that car distressed me,
So I was relieved then, ‘cos French I did know.
When I journeyed out for walks on my own,
In my blue electric wheelchair so serving,
I had conversations with the locals in French,
And for me they were their smiles reserving.
Motorbike
My motorbike has been on the terrace during the winter
I cleaned it and tried to start it, alas, the battery was
flat so I tried to kick start it but gave up got to get someone
with strong legs and muscular arms to start it.
At this time – spring- in Algarve there are flowers that
only last a week or so and so delicate that if you pick one
it will become a wizen faced and die in your hand a hungry
child by the gaslight in the slums of Soho.
Some flowers are too delicate for human hands and can
only be handled by angels with fingers soft as a silk scarf.
When I take pictures of the flowers they come up blank
like they belong to a religious sect that does not believe
in idolatry. Splendour should be shared, if you see it alone
it is like being an old man with Mona Liza in his vault.
Motorbike
I bought a little motorbike, on monkey spit it ran.
But the monkey I got with it, took a week to fill a can.
So out I went and got a chimpanzee, thinking a bigger ape more fitting.
But it beat my little monkey up and wouldn’t do more spitting.
How could I make my little bike go? I shot the monkeys as I thought.
An answer in an instant! So guess what I have bought
A camel with its bad habits could easy be my fuel.
Now the motorbikes engine's all rebuilt, to run on desert creatures drool.
So pleased I was I named the camel Stanley, he was sure to be a hit.
But Stan turned out to be a flop, the hump back wouldn’t spit.
So I’ve given up on motorbikes, I got myself a car.
It used to run on petrol, but now does 40mpg, on earwax, coal and tar.
Charlie Milne
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