This poem is about my car. It stopped the week after I arrived in Coventry and it cost me too much to fix (it was the fuel injector pump). Last week I sold it on ebay as a broken car and got 500 notes for it. I'm still not sure about the word 'farts' in the poem, but it does make me laugh. My academic George told me it was purile. That's probably fair.
With the slightest of commands – a turn
of a key, no drama, just a touch
behind the ear – you choke and churn
out a growl, and a phlegm-filled smoking cough.
Bellowing boisterous black farts from your rear,
oil gushes and fossilblood floods into aged
organs, driving limbs of cranks and gears,
and muscles grind under skin rusted and faded.
Your ninety horses smell freedom and run loose,
gallop through leaves yellow and red, fallen.