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Screw this
should be writing a poem
a detailed, beautiful little piece
about pollen on the road
and daisy-chains in little girls' hair.
But I cannot write or rant
my brain is on holiday
for tomorrow
I ride my bike
to the end of the earth
today I need to pack.
But write I must
I can do it.
Yellow hues of pollen
ride angels wings
surfing the breeze
circling the sun
and plummet to their nasty death on earth.
On earth I can pack my tool kit
first aid kit and coffee percolator
broken spokes need to be replaced
and carburettor needs a cleaning.
But now is the time to poetise
for twelve hundred dollar prize money.
Fingernails through stems
as one daisy links to the next
snowy petals catching the breeze
blond hair in giggling eyes
and it rains and snooty little kids go home.
Because I have to ride
I spent seventy dollars buying food
this better be worth it
still need to print out maps
and book camp sites.
Competition deadline is tomorrow
last year they said I was promising.
Steam rises from rain-soaked street
little children dance in puddles of pollen
cascading golden water over tiny feet
chuckling and singing
then screaming Harley scares them witless.
Bikes, motors and petrol
or kids, petals and pollen?
What should a man do?
Oil or ink,
spark plugs or parchment?
hasta la vista people
EAT MY DUST
of course that's pollen dust.
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