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Philip Burton

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In the Fast Lane

What say you’ve had a jar. All right, a load.
         And, what, the barman rings?  Extreme Unction
         situation, right? Bit of legerdemain

then
        with butter smile and the clink of six quid,
        gets you two gin slings and a Manhattan.
        You’ve drive enough to sober in the lane,

right?

Then say
        a twig skeleton jump-starts the headlit road
        at a hidden humping T-junction
        by the glycerine glare of a storm-drain;

then say
        oncoming eyes are inked by a squid
        and the cornering curb’s flicked pattern
        is lost, and glimpsed, and lost again,
        like the red marble eye of an amber toad.

Then say
        the tyre tread would need liposuction
        if it were to grip, and the one-for-the-road hits the brain.

Then say
        that the oncoming arc is written in code,
        and you do for the girl and the wife and the husband

then

Page(s) 14

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