but if you’re in a hurry
to get somewhere fast
turn right and the M1
will take you past
everything else at speed

heaven isn’t guaranteed

Like the Unions now
I’m outdated,
I’ve lost my teeth and have a softer kiss
guess that’s what happens when we get
agitated.

he picked me up at Charnock Richard
and by Knutsford
he was tearing along my major arteries
abusing his choke
burning blue smoke
stoked with Yorkie bars
from a throaty stack
and gunning his throttle
round the back of my neck
where flecks of pollution
blocked my pores
while a dark engine rumbled and roared
and made me want more and more and more
as if this was the last chance
to get love trucking.

It was in Knutsford we decided
to give the wheel a spin
making me grin
like a Cheshire pussy
when it came up a deuce
steering us both along one road
to the transport cafes
of eleventh heaven.

I had been on the road so long
had never hitched my skirt high
nor been suggestive with my thumb
never bared my breast
never showed off my bum
on the hard cold shoulder,
never kneeled before
the crown of the road.

The dark
juggernauts flew over
their marker lights hissing
in a pre-stressed forest
rear double tyres kissing
under the weight.
I tilted up my
tramp lady chin
to spoon a cold tin
of spaghetti
the red juice
spilling into
my secret dreams of an interchange,
of leg-shaving,
craving
a certain
betrayal
of this independence thing
I gave in,  enjoyed it.
We were married in spring

He was on a long haul
for Aberdeen Shore Porters
one dawn
when the frigging rig
just jacknifed
and ruined my life.

It sliced my aorta
bloodying the mud on my walls
taking my barriers with it,
chevron painted wastes of space
spilling its load of frozen plaice
all over my arterial routes

when the fish thawed
I was raw
in shocked pink
damaged, saddled
with baggage
sent to a shrink
and a course of primal scream
I screamed the obscene
while the silver darlings rotted
with the stink
of his failing
prevailing

Since then
I view the state of the art
of the heart
with a frosty eye
almost arctic
and though articulate in the main
my lips and tongue are numb
to heavy transport
and the roar of 18 wheels
in November rain.
Since that artic articulated,
since trailer fell out with tractor
I’ve thrown away my Gillette Contour II
and other crass symbols
eschewed the tacho
and the HGV macho
and accept rides
only from women motorists
because they’re better at it.

However I have a plan
one day to pull a speciman
who’s fit and cute
and carries weetabix perhaps
or Mr. Kipling’s cup cakes
or something vegetarian
and will be honoured
and enlightened enough
to make light of driving
one light delivery van
once carefully up my junction.

you see I’d like to procreate
but I dont want to be a driver’s mate
hearts fucked anyway.
through bad butch
trucking

Then an empty train
overtook us.

Designed to rearrange, conquer
and control
it was very effective
on the whole…….
just like the autobahns
and you-know-who
this is A1, top hole, tickety boo

Just then a Ford Transit minibus
and a Leyland DAF 15-seater
drew up and disgorged
what looked like a fetish club’s
weekend outing

All wore black or shiny black
apart from the flash of body piercings
and short peroxide hair.
They were shaking hands and shaking fists
about whether the vans took 4-star or diesel.
They got it wrong.

My bird and I
flew north against
a purple sky….

There was a noise below
like in the Lockerbie disaster.
I saw an explosion of bursting suitcases
split-crotch panties flew in the air
(one got caught on the petrel’s beak)
there was a shower of vibrating whips
and corsets and handcuffs, and tips
from the other pony club and clips
for your tits and all kinds of ordinary stuff
like toothpaste and clean socks.

When the smoke cleared
the people sat balefully
on the hard shoulder
eyeing their shattered
dildoes.

Then the police arrived
all chequered and flashing lights
and arrested the people
for lewdness.

If only they’d used diesel

We flew on
and the storm passed

It had been a piece
of excellent luck
to lock the keys
inside the car
to stand examining
the fabric of its shell
to consider
its weakest points
its security features
with their shoes
on other feet
outside trying to get in
not inside keeping others out
living the sweet resonance
between purpose and self-doubt

they got a window slightly open
and in descending order
the thinnest arms were lifted
to reach towards the button
on the sill
little ones
all anxious to have a function
and a skill
even the slimmest
was
too thick

we need a stick
he said
a stick a stick
the children cried
the will-power chorus
the Peugot 205
problem-solving
orchestra

one girl skipped brightly
to a skip and
gleaming like a jewel
in dark sand
she found
a perfect
metal tool
the right length
thin yet rigid
and also yielding
enough
to shape accurately
and still retain
tension

packed in again
protected like anchovies
in a tin again
they drove off
into a gathering
rainstorm