Hi Christopher -powerful poem -I do not get the Hiv Aids ref is it the State troopers not sure why they shoot?
Cheers Patrick in sunny Raynes Park
-now to feed cat -which is very pleased with itself before catching a mouse which he does not consider as food
-----Original Message-----
From: Poetryetc: poetry and poetics [mailto:[log in to unmask]] On Behalf Of Christopher C Jones
Sent: 04 April 2011 05:09
To: [log in to unmask]
Subject: sound and image
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/
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