DC gets poetic

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Springtime Escapada 

The winter is long, the light is short, this fire brings life to a season’s thwart.

As I cozy up next to these flames of heat, I venture in thought trying to find the beat.

Feeling pretty neat but the night is bleak, planning for the summer and I need new cleats.

It’s the time of year when the worst is gone, the days are getting long trying to fit in my thong.

Dreaming big fat wheels and keeping it real, on the trails with good friends until the days’ end.

Rocking one gear, rocking two gears, rocking three, rocking nine, I don’t give a fuck because everything’s fine.

With that smile on the face always keeping the pace, bombing big hills and winning the race.

The moods shifting, and the tides a turning, the snow melts, and the trails a yearning.

Nothing does it for me but a nice warm breeze, cruising up and down hills, and scarping my knees.

Here’s to spring time and the joy to be had, putting the fun between our legs and getting super rad.


Haiku by Snakehawk 

Big kitchen climbing.
Like a ham on a forklift,
But making more noise.

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About Cupcake

I don’t have a beer gut, I’ve developed a liquid grain storage facility.

16 Replies to “DC gets poetic”

  1. @Fruit

    No, you can’t have it back unfortunately. But do you live in Florida by chance?

  2. Its basically about getting up, going to work, and then going for a bike ride. Hope you like it, cuz Dirt Rag rejected it. :(

    Somewhat cognitive streaming. Like telling the tale of a day when you ripped out of bed by the inside of your eyeballs when the clock radio goes off tuned in hard to Jimi…who plays that stuff at a quarter to five? Heartbeat city. The rate is jacked before the feet even hit the floor…and they hit the floor running. Time. Everything is about time. What do you have time for…after making the time to do the necessary things like punching the clock? Minutes to eat, minutes to dress, minutes to drive…how do those minutes turn to hours once the grind is at hand? Thinking freedom all day long, a mind like a rat in a trap. Consuming. Eating minutes, feasting upon hours, waiting for the body to follow suit. The endless cycle. Work-hard-to-play-hard. Nose to the stone, eyes on the prize, always dedicate a portion of the brain to the AFTER. Freeflowing mindscape that channels those deep feelings…the ones that cause your chest to burn from WANT. I will go there. I will do that. The bastards always trying to tie me down, but I choose not to be tied. Do not run out of gas. Feed the machine, the hours are on a downhill slide. The sky is bright on the outside. The madness continues, a clutching tangle of thorns ripping away at the raw skin that is DESIRE. The holy moment will come, the grail…the end. I’m down with it. So I switch into my chameleon colors, and roar for the horizon. The hours become minutes again…fleeting. Racing the golden orb as it follows its daily crescent. Dancing along the shafts of light as they play through the scene, I fill those minutes with my soul. Those moments create and resonate the very structure of being. It’s about speed. It’s about flow. It’s about a ribbon of life through the chaos of the world. Slam it back into gear, and run hard away from the reality of the darkness. It will come, but I will fight it, and I will win by embracing it. Take the trip back home to feel the hearthstone…warm and welcoming. The lingering vacuum where once there was power announces itself with every step, but it’s the best kind of pain. Burned out and ready to dream of the minutes I have lived, rather than those in which I have merely been alive.

  3. dirt rag suck my balls
    dont want nothing on their site
    if it aint left wing

  4. …no offense, ‘cups’ but the short sweet eloquence of snegg hogg’s
    “…Like a ham on a forklift,
    But making more noise.”

    just kinda painted the ‘word picture’ that describes so many of us as we evolve into spring whilst riding our trusty steeds…

  5. My Bicycle

    My nuts are numb, my ass is sore 
    I love my bike she is my whore. 
    I pump her hard, I spit, I bleed
    she loves it all, it is her creed. 
    I trash that bitch, then give her money.
    She doesn’t care, I’m still her honey. I supply the blow,
    if she goes down I bought her from a pimp in town.
    She is so sexy I always splurt, but she’s ready for more
    she does not hurt. 

    I have shitloads of dirty non cycling related poems as well…

  6. @ Bikeslut: I like that a lot.

    This one’s just about the drink, but I thought of it while riding home from a bar.

    I Drank What?
    Pour me my whiskey
    Pour me my beer
    Drown all my troubles
    And chase ‘way my fears
    Lift all my burdens
    And dry all my tears
    Pour me my whiskey
    Pour me my beer

    When life is a hardship
    We all have to cope
    Some use religion
    Some turn to dope
    Some have sex
    In deviant ways
    I just have lots of drinks
    At the end of the day

    Now you may be lonely
    Isolated and cold
    Without a true friend
    With whom to grow old
    But from this fear
    I am thankfully free
    For down at the pub
    The barkeep’s there for me

    Pour me my whiskey
    Pour me my beer
    Drown all my troubles
    And chase ‘way my fears
    Lift all my burdens
    And dry all my tears
    Pour me my whiskey
    Pour me my beer

  7. Stevil at the Black Market printed one of my ditties a while back… I think the DC crowd will appreciate it:

    “Ode to the saddle sore nestled in the crack of my right butt cheek…”

    Oh saddle sore, saddle sore, why are you so angry?
    I wear Assos shorts and apply butt butt’r to my shammy,
    I buy expensive saddles, and keep you clean and dry,
    But no matter what I do, you bring tears to my eyes.
    Oh saddle sore, saddle sore you cause pains and agonies,
    If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were a case of herpes.
    When I get on my bike you make me feel like I’m going to die,
    You bleed and spread ever closer to my wrinkled brown eye.
    Oh saddle sore, saddle sore won’t you please heal and leave me alone?
    I worry that one day you will abscess and eat your way through to the bone.
    The bike fitter guy says I got you ’cause I’m not flexible enough,
    But my wife says the problem is that I’m just not that tough.
    Oh saddle sore, saddle sore why do you treat me this way?
    Don’t you know that there isn’t a price on earth I wouldn’t pay?
    To be rid of you, to feel your ugly presence no more,
    I’d be your bitch for life if you’d leave and walk out that door.
    Oh saddle sore, saddle sore…
    Hey wait, hold on, why am I writing poetry for you?
    Would you do the same if it was I who was making you blue?
    I’m sick and tired of putting up with your shit.
    Gonna head to the doctor and get some antibiotics in a bit.
    I’ll be done with you for good; no more pain, no more goo,
    I only have one more thing to say, that’s right, you guessed it, “fuck you.”

    Original can be found here: http://www.allhailtheblackmarket.com/2009/10/mondays_happen_whether_you_wan_1.html

  8. …An Ode To The “Form Cycles Fatso”, Should I Ever Get The Opportunity To Test Ride It Even Though I Could Never Justify Buying One Due To The Fact That It’s Specific Intended Qualities Would Serve No Real Purpose In The Environment Wherein I Do 99% Of My Riding But That I Still Find Myself Lusting Over Anyway Because It’s Such An Awesome Fucking Machine…
    ——————by bikesgonewild————————-

    …holy shit,
    i hope i fit !!!…