Neil Berrett

Embrace the retches of the discarded, for there is no escape.

The taste of gravel scratches your tongue, well endowed but not well enough. Once righted will be never right again. Try and hide this memory, you’ll carry it into the rest of your life.

The slight riff in your surface runs deeper as time turns backwards. The sputter of September rain cannot cleanse your spurious deeds. Waiting for the cold snap of shackles broken loose can.

Surrounded by the fresh ripeness of spring, your grasp is not long enough. The tree that anchors your descent into madness. A legacy of  faint scratches in the earth, curled peels of paint and slight whispers of memories unsure.

Skin pressed bare against the gravely ground, so helpless and faltered. Someday your gentle savior will lift you out of this harness of death and into the free sky of cheer.

Standing there with the forlorn eyes of a dog awaiting its master’s return as touchers, grabbers, wrench-turners and shoe-kickwithers oblige themselves. Only the blue lemniscate knows how long it will take….

Warm salty streaks, the skin rubbed red and raw, the wail of a child in mourning. Not even the innocent ones are safe.

Slumped over, dangly-chained and a stick leaking out of its ass. Soon you’ll be scraping against the cobblestones. Flattened aluminum and the sour spit of a congressman are the best you can hope for.

Wobbly wheels kicked in by a drunken miscreant. Dried blood rusted over anything shiny. It’s complete, its bright offerings await a passerby with a carnal curiosity. The first taste and the last thread of dignity.

A tribute to the slain, Geisträder remind us that we are but finite moments of ourselves careening towards the speeding bus of fate.

Rusty and one-legged, the flaps of leather invite you in for a session of sandpapery groin-burn.

Thrown to the ground and forgotten like so many baskets full of ginger babies, this bike serves as a red carpet to keep the tires of the bourgeois clean.

This  bike just wanted someone to claim it, someone to take it back, someone to love it and kiss it and wash its undercarriage with eco-friendly cleaner. One noble soul proclaimed its love and offered a shitty tire engagement ring. It’s been waiting, longing, standing stark with desire for the passer-by lover to return and rescue it from it’s filth and squalor.

The Big Brother car let his Little Brother bike get locked to a pole, stripped down and ravaged for all he’s worth, a glittery 80s Mississippi.

This is the place to go if you want tetanus with your handjob in the bushes.

It’s still got wheelbrows but it can’t raise them to look surprised or angry, just forlorn.

Soon the vegetation will be the color of neon steak and piss.

Dug up from the earth, it’s seeking revenge