Conc

Metallic make-up drips about your;
arches, half-moon, slightly rusty
but boldly flaring outwards; doors,
bordered with blistering rubber,
panel shine however, persists; canopy,
slightly dulled, by persistent sky
leaks and sun leaks from between clouds,
even so, largely structurally intact.

Keys adorned with a crack-laden remote,
slip neatly into the sturdy ignition barrel.
Once cranked round about twice, body twitches,
a grumble emerges from up front, followed by
a sweeping surge of horses being awoken;
i tremble as cued by the tired black-leathered
electronic recliner i have commandeered
for purposes unknown this evening.

I combine twists and presses to calibrate
you, to every whim i have, which you can address.
Soon, the heat is rising, as my foot is hovering
above the anchor pedal. I shift, first into drive, then
onto the loud pedal. With the most sordid depression
horses erupt and i leave a slice of my tyres to
congregate with the tarmac. Tumbling air cascades
in formation around your shell, as your heart is
propelling me into the dark.

This evening i shall court you;
This is romance.

M.a.W
13.1.10