A Bike Called Fury

March 20, 2007

What makes it worse
is that My Fury
was probably stolen
by a man.

A man,
with bolt cutters,
wearing a hood and heavy gloves,
dodging cameras, on the run-

Yes. In all likelihood,
it was a man
that took my Fury
from me.

My little Fury.
You were fire engine red
and smelt of oil with
Fury painted on your pole

in silver letters.
My little Fury.
you had handlebars
shaped like antlers-

made of chrome,
like a deer
who’d won a fight
and kept the bones

My little Fury.
You moved like lightening
Monday mornings,
slamming rain and

dodging panes
like shattered glory.
My Fury.
Your tires never broke.

You fucked
with four wheel drives.
and caught their eyes,
like new glass marbles.

You made
grown men cry
with lust and longing,
and why can’t I

have Fury just like hers?
My little Fury.
Do you remember the time
we beat a track-

down Central Railway
Cycle path?
sunshine pouring on the trail
weather hot, like a pail-

of boiling vinegar?
My little Fury.
Remember the man,
huffing and puffing,

in spandex lycra,
little boy racer,
couldn’t be beaten,
couldn’t be shaken.

We were late for work and
didn’t care – but he had
nearly killed himself
to come up close and say

‘you can go fast on that,
can’t you girl?’
He twatted it past,
with head pressed down

and man breath wheezing
in the air. My little Fury.
We just carried on,
but were surprised

to find him necking water,
doubled up, saying
nothing, 2 miles later
further on.

My little Fury.
You made dogs
chase like wolves,
doves break cover,

ravens skulk.
My little Fury.
We were like
Gwen Steffani

and Madonna,
Sappho, Kali,
My darling

little Fury.
We were
Torvel and Dean
without the fights

Robson and Jerome
with spark and bite.
You were nimbler
than a car,

You were fleeter
than a horse, darling Fury
not insured
and giving the come on

with shining pedal
and curving guard,
you were almost asking
to be deflowered –

but not actually asking.

There was no permission given.
No free rides. No undone chain.
No begging tires.

My little Fury.
My darling little Fury.
We don’t take kindly
to being riled-

we don’t like punks who
think their fly
and don’t much care
for thieves with knives

and saws and wires
and bags of tricks
for stealing hearts
and bending minds.

My little Fury.
I invoke your sign.
If he’s still with you
take what’s mine.

Pull your break cord.
Fan your fire
My Little Fury
set your headlight

My little Fury – I tell you
make a vow.
Break the man
who rides you now.


3 Responses to “A Bike Called Fury”

  1. Lola said

    Wonderful — I adore the last stanza. (And I hope you get Fury II soon.)

  2. Haha this is fun and filled with energy. I think I now know what to expect if I ever come running or riding with you, and am now aware of the several years of intensive training such an endeavor will probably require.


  3. Hi Lola,

    Fury II has been procured, but will take some getting use to. Not red, but blue and called Hard Rock, not Fury. Only time will tell;)

    Hey Alex,

    Thanks…this version had some definate problems, mainly around the middle where it got a bit waffly. Sound advise from Damo. What do you think of the second version?

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