Dig deep with those spurs, into the moment, deeper through into the next. Offer neither mercy nor hesitancy. A foot was put firmly down & for thousands of kilometres a pulse of lines with a lifting swiftness pushed a quivering tin-full of heavy sliders, threaded understatements propped with a glory of course markings packed nice, pack tight.
Whip branches past the window, flit the trunks of raspy vocals, whip wet & heat, whipped for too far gone past breakpoints and return.
Motion. Lovely.
An eclectic-aesthetic is the bouncing buoy glimpsed fleetingly on the way down, around & up to back down again. Urges the sloth to hunt, beckoning but briefly & only in response to an independent wink of inkling. Great cities & wee villages rose & fell away behind without much of a fresh breath bar one or two mints. No such suckers, check all angles - we have work to do if the level reads true.
There's the ambassador from Donabate along for the ride & with a firm grip, the reins are commandeered through a 5 hour stint to belt headlong into the fall of heavens; great gusts buffet & tease the remnants of rubber on front tyres, tongues flick the cracks for decay & slide in to soak feets & foam. Seats swapped & some fresh eyes are set solid on invisible horizons - we're fed on a vague motion-toward, some general forward direction at high speed, plaque is ground fine betwixt an aching platoon of once-white molars.
Miracles? No miracles. Determination & fear. Lust & promise. Hope &/or oblivion. We made a pass at the continent's most easterly protrusion. Peace & grace, little steps. For a series of cojoined fleeting fragments of moments, life was that of a phantom limb; rejoicing in the self-acceptance of it's detachment.
It made that remaining miles homeward hum, dispersing silently unnoticed in the trailing slipstream.
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Motion. Lovely.
An eclectic-aesthetic is the bouncing buoy glimpsed fleetingly on the way down, around & up to back down again. Urges the sloth to hunt, beckoning but briefly & only in response to an independent wink of inkling. Great cities & wee villages rose & fell away behind without much of a fresh breath bar one or two mints. No such suckers, check all angles - we have work to do if the level reads true.
There's the ambassador from Donabate along for the ride & with a firm grip, the reins are commandeered through a 5 hour stint to belt headlong into the fall of heavens; great gusts buffet & tease the remnants of rubber on front tyres, tongues flick the cracks for decay & slide in to soak feets & foam. Seats swapped & some fresh eyes are set solid on invisible horizons - we're fed on a vague motion-toward, some general forward direction at high speed, plaque is ground fine betwixt an aching platoon of once-white molars.
Miracles? No miracles. Determination & fear. Lust & promise. Hope &/or oblivion. We made a pass at the continent's most easterly protrusion. Peace & grace, little steps. For a series of cojoined fleeting fragments of moments, life was that of a phantom limb; rejoicing in the self-acceptance of it's detachment.
It made that remaining miles homeward hum, dispersing silently unnoticed in the trailing slipstream.