Gordon Polone (wompwomp) wrote in bikewriters,
Gordon Polone

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some more stuff, and some edits

off to a little slow start, but i had to edit some stuff for my portfolio due today, thought i'd post them.
one edit of the long one from last post, and another shorter one.

In a car crash, the safest place to be is riding past on a bike.

A centaur was, once upon a time, of this I am convinced.
A whole made out of two halves, upper and lower; somehow, this noble creature was
Devolved  into obsolescence. Why?
La-Z-Boy‘s and four wheel drive.
Who needs to flip the chair up to get places, when we can just change the channel?

Don‘t lie to yourself. Be honest. Cyclists never have a
Head on, t-bone, rollover, sideswipe, 8-bike pile up,
Or any other sort of collision with each other during the course of
Normal transportation.
Never happened to cowboys when they rode around either.
Of course, the horse wasn’t filled with
TV’s, child seats, adjustable headrests, airbags, power door locks.

Cowboys are past tense, at least in the truest sense.
No longer do we have wild western manhunts with Butch and Sundance,
Nor do we see fancy fellows jumping over and over their horses while they ride side by side with each other.
Often times, though, we invoke their imagery in token manners, not unlike we invoke the Native
Both are gone, not lost.

pity clop, no more centaurs, only horses with cowboys on them; the upper separated from the lower.
pity clop, no more horses, the animal doesn’t live on octane percentage and cannot pick up destroy the ozone layer.
pity clop, no more laziness, I cannot stand it.
pity clop, no more excuses. My hooves grow restless, and I must move faster than clip/pity/clop.
-Shhhhhhh. The sound has evolved. Merely whoosh whoosh whoosh for pedal re-
evolutions.  No saloons nor hay for my horse and rider, no ouzo nor maidens for my centaur.

I move now.
MORE than a centaur,
MORE than a cowboy,
 the MOdeRn convErgence
of Mankind’s priOR Experiments in self-reliance.

Not just movement, but perception.
Increased awareness as
I stride
upon the urban(e) landscapes that displace the stomping grounds north of Colchis:
I whiff, glimpse, tingle, nibble, hear the

A child out of wedlock is born,
The wholly legitimate child of man and machine
Offending the combustive corpse-wagon corps at every opportunity.
I notice others, evolved centaurs who
And we exchange this information with the
Flicker of eye contact and toss of the head in what could be construed as a horse tossing His mane in the wind.

A centaur strides on,
Seeing other cowboys,
Other centaurs
A snort, scoff
At the comBUSTive hearses,
Corpses they contain, representing myself
As a legitimate cross of man and machine, and not just a
Fucker weaving through traffic wearing only shoes, spandex shorts and a helmet.

44:14/Equine Folly

44 teeth;
No animal nor vegetable meat do ruminate
Only chain;
Chewed up, spit out, interlocking, re-digested by
14 lower teeth;
The chewing (bi)cycle completes, and continues
Intractable yet impossible, to ingest the idea
But simpler?,
To stomach flying down a hill, heart
Breaking the
Sound barrier, with no hint of brakes.
The problem,
With the horse;
It didn’t take a 5mm allen wrench.

Again, any feedback is super.
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