A Bike Called Fury (3)

March 21, 2007

Think this version is stronger…but a little too close to it now. Constructive crit welcome!

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 moved like lightening
Monday mornings,
slamming rain and

dodging panes
like shattered glory.
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 wanting Fury

like a substance.
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.

Fury. Remember that November
we went to Wales?
Freezing rain in liquid gales?

Remember the day
I brought you home?
Remember the man

who stroked your nose?
The one who told us
Fury was my sign?

You made dogs
chase like wolves,
doves break cover,

ravens hide.
My Little Fury.
We were Gwen Steffani

and Madonna,
Sappho, Kali,

My Darling 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 actually asking-
but you were not actually asking.
There was no permission given.

No free rides.
No undone chain.
No begging tires.

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

Here’s my sign.

If he’s still with you
take what’s mine.
Pull your break cord.

Fan your fire
My little Fury.
Break the bastard

One Response to “A Bike Called Fury (3)”

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