many readers, & sometimes i'm one,would have problems with the SM  
aspects, Chris. but i also wonder just how much this responds to a  
well known song/ballad/poem? i mean the Browning (i think) but also...?

spoken sound? as in ranging close to singing...? the images seemed  
pretty connected, as story, to me, but also as replay of ancient tales  
redirected....

doug


Quoting "Christopher C Jones" <[log in to unmask]>:

> For a while now I have been playing with presenting poetry as spoken
> sound and non-connected image. (Like maybe facebook idea)
>
> The below is one text I am considering. (It's a critical poem about
> HIV/AIDS if that needs saying) but feedback, critical comment most
> welcome....
>
>
> 	THE HOG RIDERS
>
> The wind a torrent
>      of ice on his face
> moonlight and ghost ships
>      toss on a cloudy sea;
>
> The highway a ribbon
>      hugging the purple coast
> as a bike rider comes
>      riding, riding, riding.
>
> He's a full face helmet
>      and black balaclava
> a black leather jacket
>      with black leather gloves;
>
> His jeans fit tight and his
>      boots go up to his knees
> as he sits astride
>      that big twin piston hog.
>
> Over the gravel he rides
>      into my dark camp site,
> he pulls tight on the reins
>      bringing his hog to a halt.
>
> With a kick of his heel
>      he throws the side stand down,
> with a twist of his hips
>      he dismounts from the bike.
>
> His hair is bristle short
>      his eyes are mad with lust;
> "Lick my boots, I'm taking
>      your prized cherry tonight
>
> and we'll be making gold
>      before the morning comes
> since you waited and watched
>      for me under the stars."
>
> He comes to me by moonlight
>      as Satan has planned;
> He tightens my bonds
>      my arse burns with his brand;
>
> His golden casade
>      tumbles over my chest;
> I hear the black waves
>      of the moon light crash down.
>
> He lashes my flesh
>      welt after welt after welt
> then cradles me up
>      in his arms, carries me
>
> Holds my smarting flesh
>      to the stinging salt spray
> and washes me under
>      the ocean's pounding black waves.
>
> He puts me on a leash
>      leads me back to the camp
> where he folds me over
>      that big twin piston hog.
>
> He rolls on a rubber
>      empties a tube of KY
> and takes my cherry
>      'til the golden sunrise.
>
> We pack up the camp site
>      late that morning and ride
> the gipsy ribbon road
>      along the coastline;
>
> Until the State troopers
>      see us and their guns blaze,
> like dogs on the highway
>      they shoot us down.
>
> Blood red we are left
>      in the sweltering sun
> on that gipsy ribbon road
>      riding a hog to hell;
>
> But our ghosts they return
>      as civil war begins
> when governments shoot us
>      like cowards, in the back.
>
>
> (italics follow)
>
>      *        *        *
>
> And in the still of winter nights and winds in the trees
> moonlight and ghost ships are tossed on cloudy seas
> and a bike rider comes riding, riding, riding
> with a full faced helment and thick balaclava
> a black leather jacket with black leather gloves
> his jeans fit tight and his boots go up to his knees
> as he sits astride that big piston hog.
>
>
>
>
>
>
> --
> have chronic fatigue syndrome so may be delayed in reply or brain fog weird
>
> just to let you know that's all, Chris Jones.
>
> Blog: http://abdevpoetics.blogspot.com/
>
>



Douglas Barbour
11655 - 72 Avenue NW
Edmonton  Alberta  T6G 0B9

That’s not a cross look it’s a sign of life

			Frank O’Hara