We perked up the high road in a slew,
ganging the motors on the poxy slalom
the planners scratched round these estates.
Burned a crotch off the tarmac,
wanked the gears till our palms
split like brown figs. We scalped
the tread, reddling our bonnet
in ripping the wings of serried Fiestas.
Gullet dry, jumping intestines, that's
the jack we're gunning, hunting.

Moonless was double spick, the gutless
running bambi from our screwed amok.
She banked us when we flanked
the boarded-up butcher's, slung
her body across us like shopping.
Fractured the screen. We hooted it off,
plucking the darkness with a rough plectrum.
Heard she was dead, or something,

Never been down the mortuary before:
chuck that, I was choked, gutted,
hardly recognised the black char
of my wheel arm's last crook.

From Robinson Crusoe's Bank Holiday Monday