Our Motorbike

rocket water eglantine wooden moon on the roof signs of night & the red motorbike's bleeding muscle fleshed stalk dripping and overgrowing our evening it too a sign of darkness a leek's fat body the red motorbike our night fire ravishment of chrome steel our red motorbike glazed with henna and betel it squirts salmon  juice between the dark of our thighs it sprouts and shouts at the bar it wears a portion of evening in its eye it sloughs off sleep like the bushes drop resin & berries our rags dip purring in even redder roar our muscles softly skip sweet sweat flickers we polish carefully & assiduously our eyes are perched on steel antennae surely there is nothing redder than our motorbike steed we will live on it our red tent dig our claws into its heart cherries meat it shouts out spittle rip the juice instructs the eyes in the language of iron the red night squats pressed against our motorbike we ride hunting little girls in the wooden sky