Evil Knievel

[John G]

the sound in his head made a kind of clunking noise,
like a car travelling on three flat tyres,
a dull thud,
that was the noise in his head,

like a car on three flat tyres through a concrete maze of urban sprawl
and buses and rude boys
bopping down the street
lined with plastic bags,

discarded coffee cups
12 years old mothers smoking fags
pushing prams
in tracksuit bottoms

High rise throw shadows which only further darken every corner.

His head thudded like an axe splintering into maple,
a forest of lumberjacks and
animal corpses trodden under foot for a thousand years
turning into charcoal

X X

Evil Knivel once built a ramp that was aimed at the stars.
He tried to climb into the ether and shake hands with God.

XX
At dinner time he pushed alphabetti spaghetti around his plate to make haiku’s.
Peas were used as full stops.

He left a suicide note.
It was illegible and badly spelt, scribbled on the back of a crumbled packet of 20 Silk Cut.
Maybe his faith had worn thin like a pair of old jeans,
a broken zip, torn pockets,
frayed hems ripped at the crouch.