BLOODY HOLES, BY GRAHAM FILLED
The salt and grit have washed away
With the April showers, and now it’s May.
The roads are clear of the rust inciters
But what left behind ain’t good for riders.
Bloody pot holes everywhere,
I’ve gotta weave like I’m impaired.
And if my wheel goes down a crater
I’ll get a puncture sooner or later.
The tyre flattens as the air escapes
That’s another hole I clearly hate.
Riding off road there’s much more room
To a void the depressions of doom.
But hit a rock and the casings bleed
The life blood oil the engine needs.
A breech that causes devastation
It’s not a breather for ventilation.
A desperate need for liquid metal
Before the haemorrhage is fatal.
Then there’s the hose that shouldn’t break
Contains the fluid for clutch, fuel, water, oil or brake.
Radiator dry and the engine’s lagging
Or the hydraulic clutch has started dragging.
Lose your fuel and the engine stops,
Brake fluid low and the bike does not.
Another potential tragic leak
The result of which is always bleak.
But the void that is sadder still
Is the loss that you cannot refill.
When a friend leaves for the afterlife
I question my direction and buy another bike.
In the massive chasm that echoes grief
I need more bikes ‘cus life is brief.
That’s why a sale is not income
Just a gap in the shed for another one.
They look so good just sitting there
And that distracts me from my despair.
A crack in a tyre or a phone screen
The day was better before they were seen.
Or the test ride with a few choice sockets
And you rip your seat with the screwdriver in ya back pocket.
Or opening ya panniers after a wet ride
And everything is soaked inside.
When your filter has let in dirt
And there’s a draft in armpit of your favourite T-shirt.
Your ground sheet looks like it’s got woodworm
And the uneven ground is way too firm.
And you waste your breath on a Therm-a-rest
That’s got more holes than your mozzi net.
In the toe of your thermal sock,
Or the condom you’ve just taken off,
Got a toothache, need a filling,
Fell through the hammock when you were chillin’.
If life on the road resembles Swiss cheese
It’s guaranteed not to please.
Find me a hole that will give me joy
‘Cus most of them just annoy.
I’m looking out, my eyes are peeled
They’ll be no good until they’re filled.
One last thing that I get confused
As my Bulgarian lessons are underused –
“Dupka” means “hole” and “dupay” mean “bum”
And it gets me in trouble when I say the wrong one.
So holes are my nemesis and that is that
But when referring to battery, spot or landscape; I don’t want flat.
I don’t even like polos or ponchos that much either.
