and so he sits on his roaring motorcycle
driving backwards on one-way streets
waking up old women and children.

he's a modern day atilla,
fist raised in a salute to the gods of audacity.

he's free like a phoenix, with all the colours
of all the flags of all the WORLD
splattered on his wings.

he's immortal like a phoenix, constantly
kicking off the ash at the tip of his
blazing red cigarrette, unafraid.

and he turns the handles and throws his hair
in roaring gushes of liberating wind,
like the world will never be the same after this,
not once he's burned his trail across
sunrises and sunsets and trains going
places and airplanes going
nowhere and endless pointless soundless
traffic jams and the silent eyes of
children when their houses burn in the
deserts of sudan and briefcases of brokers
headed for straight-out smack dab
suicide.

when he leaves
cigarrettes are put out
on the asphalt of the road.

and he never thinks about
anything at all.