On The Road

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He might be Californian,
Shaggy
In flared denim suit
And long
Sun blond hair
Agitating his eyes.
He wears a moustache
And breath
Spiced bourbon and cigarette.

The days are a sun blanched
Headache while the nights
Are dizzying breakneck
Of life lived fast
With liquor cubed drink
Chinking glimmer in a glass,
Or bottle neat
From a brown paper bag
Hidden in a back street:
It’s all much of a muchness.

There are girls:
All with faraway look,
Smacked up
And drifting nowhere
On the drug of sex
And fleeting break
From loneliness
Found in strange
Bedfellow’s quiver
And alcoholic unburdening
Of orgasm before sleep.

He says – be cool baby –
To whom ever he meets
On the road,
Salutes them
With joint
Marihuana journey
Or acid trip
To nameless places,
Passing in a flurry of faces,
Hard as cold asphalt,
Futureless and travelling
Without name.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015

Winter Welsh Cottage

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Not more
Than rockfall,
It dwells hunkered
Beside the spate
And the wizened,
Moss bearded,
Lichen fleece trees,
Bent to authority
Prevailing.

Its stone walls
Sieve the moor wind
Of its cold fingering,
And heather herb scent
Sweet on its fidgeting tips
Ingress on drafts
Under the mischievous door.

The mist is low
And sight is brought close
As weather-fallen
Days and nights
Resemble the gloom
Blurring the edges of the world.
How can this not affect
The mind of the old man
Thoughtless before the stove
Burning low on enclosed
Vistas of wintertime?

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015

Sleeping Mountains

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He sleeps
Through millennia:
The days and years
Indistinguishable.

His body
Wrapped in a mottle skin coat
Weathers enduring seasons.
Elements
In their raw state,
Abrasive and unforgiving,
Fracture his skin
To cleaved splinters
Sloughed clattering
In scree slips,
Through which
Sparse plants
Eke meagre.

This is how it is
Upon his slumber-back dormancy,
Where heather and bracken
Strewn wirey-wild
Flower purple
And unfurl
In fronded reach,
In nooks
And boggy patches
Between white cataracts
And the slow lichen roses
Tattooed
On every blemished slab and edifice.

Through this
He sleeps,
As time
Flows unnoticed.

© Ben Truesdale and distilledvoice, 2015