Thursday, December 17, 2009

The pillion.
An empty pocket ,a bent sprocket
The unsettled dust on that old jacket.
All these forced me to ride as a pillion,
Oh i say the ride was one in a million.

The potholes on the road, the potholes in my head,
The thought of you makes the whole world seem dead.
The smell of rubber,burnt on the road in protest,
the slogan shouting on a politician's pretext,
In between all this, you are hard to forget.

The curves on the road, the curves around your waist,
That kiss which has left a lingering taste.
The mist in the air, reminds me of our little affair,
In this cold,at this moment,
All i ask is to nestle in your lovely hair.

This my love, is not the idea of a drunks prank,
Believe when is say this,
I shall make love to you on my next bike's petrol tank...

But until then, i shall contend with the nearest sperm bank....

This was the stupidity that ran through while riding as a pillion to horsley hills this week.
Dont ask me who i am referring to or what it means.