The girl on the bike was a mess-- She was nursing her baby, no less. The cop gave a citation, 'Twas a moving violation To the baby, for riding a breast!
I wish I could be fast on your bike The way you travel this world Like a kid or enthusiast. To feel your heart race Against your shirt That has me quick into thinking That maybe I've learned While you ride fast I fall And there's no looking back Only me watching you go. It's emptier now When I can't hear your voice Saying, "good morning" To the shops opening on my street As I lay in my bed Where dreams only fool me I can imagine your wheels turning As the soles of your feet Break hard on the pavement. Maybe you'd look up Just for a moment... To see if my window was open. Still, the heart doesn't know That my mind begins learning If you ride fast I fall And there's no returning Only you and black bicycle
When mi go down a road and mi call out icepop Everyone line up and then it start sell like water You see when mi reach home Mommy said where the icepop mi see you a sell Mi said mommy when mi go down a road mi call out icepop Mi said mommy when a go take a day off tomorrow Mommy said that is bad because they people get addicted to it When mi said mommy mi a go to stop When mi go down a road The people see mi They said where the icepop you were selling Mi said mi a take a day off The people start stone Mi start cry
I imagine heaven, as seeing copernicus balancing himself, while riding a bicycle for the first time, seeing how he theorised the imbalance of the geocentric model... mind you: the heliocentric model for writing history... kinda shitty, isn't it? not much to go around, landing on the moon, probes to saturn, lovely pictures... to me? we're still living in a geocentric world, since most of history happens in the geocentric model, rather than the heliocentric model of: dwarfing man... plus, readings maps doesn't really help even if you know that the earth isn't flat... o. k. smart ass, you navigate a car across europe, from england to a remote city in eastern poland!
Memory is such a fickle faculty of the mind, Made twice as fickle (some for of "natural" Selection) - most assuredly an ontological Anomaly - but i remember this one particular Morning, where i had to take a photograph Of the vanilla / raspberry / rose hue clouds, While pumping myself for the day ahead At 7a. m. , listening to *jethro tull's My god - ah, the flute man, i sometimes Imitate it, puffing out clouds of biblical Verse citing: the fire ahead, and the smoke Behind, will guard your path upon The woken ask for: an exodus out egypt. After all, i'm all for free speech, But when a freedom is lacking, And an insidiousness overcomes a first Comment of a site like you-tube... Debating bands, "trying" to broaden The young minds: I actually was introduced to king crimson When i was circa 10 / 11... Hell, depends who your father was... People abused by trolls forget one major Point... the adrenaline rush you get When being slighted... You know the effect of adrenaline in This loser microcosmos? You know how powerful it can be? You have to learn english a second time Even if you already speak it as an american, Or an australian... You have to pick out the best Bits: on the continent there's no such thing As english humour, there's only The macabre humour, or... dark humour... Prime ingredient? Oh don't be silly, it's not turmeric (the poor man's saffron) - although that Could 'elp... It's? sar-casm! The english are renowned for it... By the way, i once mentioned "chiromancy" And i. q. , i. e. how you hold a pen Or a fork / knife, or how you type without Ever glancing at the keyboard... Better add chop-sticks to the affair... I prefer to call them pinch-sticks - Since you're most likely pinching your Food, rather than forking it... And that: they're not exactly drum sticks Either... I wonder why high i. q. correlates To culinary equipment... I fiddle with my beard, Scratch my head and state: no idea! But... have you ever wondered why Thai curries are so much fresh than indian Or bengali? the indians use the base Of onion ginger and garlic, And very few greens... They're heavy on the stomach too, But thai curries? So easy to digress on, Sorry, digest... And these pinch-stick antics? Bewildering... I can't remember the last time i used Them, But it's always the same cliche: Once you've learned how to ride a bike, Once you've learned how to swim, Once you've learned how to use chopsticks, You can't forget how to, Even with a ridiculous amount of hiatus. Odd, isn't it? Well, i find it odd... See, when you come across a youtube troll In the comments section, Be sure to turn a reply into a sarcastic snigger - The english humour type, Recognise the adrenaline rush, Mention a small weener, I know it's not exactly bungee jumping, Just recognise the adrenaline... And fuck me it's there, esp. (like me) you've Had a few drinks "too many"... It's easy prey... you can turn into The most obnoxious antithesis of a troll That a troll begins to cower... I'm not for safe spaces or curbing a freedom Of speech, but, come one: You mention a few bands that are the neo-alt. From the 1970s in the prog rock movement, Why settle on citing a want for kids reading To led zeppelin... or black sabbath... No one mentioned deep purple either... Guess what pisses of guitar store workers more: Deep purple's smoke on the water, Or led zeppelin's stairway to heaven? Oddly enough? the latter. I just hate hearing the news of teenagers being "sold" suicide after being abused online - Esp. girls... Come on, if you're being trolled, Turn into an englishman, become sarcastic, Watch some fawlty towers, some monty python, And then spin it with things like: I'm getting a hard-on, or: my cunt's getting wet... Pick 'n' mix... The only way to effectively disperse these "saints" of free speech is to become A bigger troll than they are... And how does one overcome a troll? One becomes an orc.
If insomnia were a bicycle, I'd ride it As I watch my yawn open eye Wide awake I'd smell the roses Trace their spikes and wear their lipstick And pardon me if dreamers can't smell it A fever akin to a violin's soundest Cutting right through 4AM With a blade of flicker and undestined dim I'd ride past the bus stop I walk to everyday Hang my black coat and never claim it again Ride past the point where I'd make it to work on time But my boss to never see my face again And if the hour hand were any slower I swear...
 I'd finally meet you And when I do finally see you Our glass cages will then shatter ВЂЁOut of the wreckage, a new kind of disaster ВЂЁA happy one But I'd have to warn you ВЂЁI don't have time for greeting cards There are no lungs in paper Life is A box of limbs And that, I would open And you bet! That, I'd claim If insomnia were a bicycle, I'd ride it Straight into the sunset, I'd watch the sunrise
You are a bicycle, Your rims are rusted; Rusted to the overblown rubber tire.
Your chain is broken. We've tried to splice it so many times, But I'm running out of links and I'm broke.
You broke me, you ran over my foot. No apologies. Only the reminders you leave like leaches. "Well, I told you. I'm a bike. "
Well, I told you not to hurt me. Then you deliberately sought out to run over my foot. Then ask me "Will you pump my tires, will you oil my chain. "
I do these things for you, without being asked or appreciated. Do them because you're my bicycle, and I appreciate you.
For getting me places, and knocking me down To give me bruises, bumps, and scars Scars that remind me, I am not a bicycle.
I am the flesh and blood of the world. I am not a hollow iron cast; My innards are in motion with my mind and heart.
I gotta stop pumping the tires on this bike, and toss it. This bicycle gave me tetanus from it's peddles trying to run away.
Stop cutting up my fucking feet, bike.
bicycle.
Author: R L Doe
0
Date: 08/10/2019
№ 1007696
I Want To Ride My Bicycle
The wheel spun, as the creaking Of old rusted joints moved Upon A Tattered Frame, Its was with in the spinning The voices sang The wheel shall spin" "Fates hand shall tell" "For will the wheel move" "Silent" "Or" "Sights bell" I awoke startled, hearing the Wheels turn, old spokes Sounding with each rotation, I looked upon the old bike A ringing in my ears, No wheels to move, "Just an empty shell" What made the noises "I touch my head" I feel blood, like tears falls to the ground I am conscious and the spokes Upon a crumpled wheel, "Each spoke still spinning" By the movement of the car wheel, Each one takes Hair Skull Brain, My mind trying to shield me From my fate, but the bell on the Handlebar, Bing "BIng" "BING" Awoke me to my fate, a broken Reflector shows what closed eyes Did cloak, from me to see, I scream, A Maddening Scream, As I lie crumpled a broken shell, And this mirror A front row image Of my death in slow motion, The wheel turns I hear the bell, And with the final chime The wheel turns but there is no one home, To hear the bells ring and the wheel carries on...
