by Luke Otley
One who would whimper and whine while
Preparing a presentation of a simple literary theme,
Is now a maple mass with mean glare and serious eyes
That still hold their childish lust
Though subdued, arm around a hulking biker
In a mood that could darken like dusk.
Especially dangerous when whisky fogged minds
Snort Columbian lines and dusted blinds fight off the morn,
In that mumble of dark this greased man whispers
“Gods move fearlessly these days” –
Or some such saying –
Before, with bent head and eyes red, he shudders again
A convulsion that leaves his tatooed lips trembling a mutter of absolution.