Expressionist Riding

Some play by ear and despise the confines of sheet music.
I ride by instinct and disdain painted lines and caution signs.
Some paint and dance interpretively because it's how they feel.


I leave skid marks, reverb in car parks.
Split lanes, play traffic games.
Punch up that pig, to ogle a rig.


Corner a bit faster, flirt with disaster.
Scrape the pegs, steer with my legs.
Amidst the smell of the snow, the chill in the trees. 


Chase a day's last flames on roads without names.
Ride in the moon light to sleep in a campsite,
And relive the last ride sitting by the fireside.


For the sounds, the scenery and the sensations.

That's how to ride. That's its appeal.