The poem
Blats booted to blatant dubbing the avenue dire with rubbings of Sveinn Forkbeard leading a black squall of Harleys with Moe Snow-Whitebeard and
Possum Brushbeard and their ladies and, sphincter-lipped, gunning, massed in leather muscle on a run, on a roll, Santas from Hell like a whole shoal leaning
wide wristed, their tautness stable in fluency, fast streetscape dwindling, all riding astride, on the outside of sleek grunt vehicles, woman-clung, forty years on from Marlon.