Grit in the Gears

I am the grit in the gears, the missing bolt, I am the poker of sticks into spokes. I like to know how things work, but sometimes when I take them apart and rebuild them, I have a few pieces left over. I am a man, so I tend to leave reading the instructions until after it goes wrong. And like all men I have a comprehensive mental map of the world and never need to ask directions. I never get lost, only sometimes I'm late, or end up in the wrong place entirely. It's what we do.

Thursday, 6 November 2008

Poem. (Inspired by recent events). By Soupbucket.

Each day, I hear the crunch of entropy,
The universe disassembles.
My car, okay, not new,
But newer than me.
A gearbox.

A drive shaft.
Universal joint.
Universal.
Entropy.

Four-wheel-drive.
But sometimes none.
Or one.

It churns,
Steadfastly,
mud.

Drive shaft.
Centre differential?
Hm.

Entropy.

And below my hearing range,
Rust.
Degrades.
Slowly.
Shiny steel
To
Red powder.

So close, the mysteries of the universe,
Displayed in this
Universal joint.

3 comments:

Pallav8 November 2008 at 13:04
that's pretty spiritual man...
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red dirt girl9 November 2008 at 10:24
it's quite wonderful to watch words burble to your surface - as you often keep them intact and hidden.

spiritual? hmmm .....
humourous? maybe, if you're a landrover freak (hee. hee.)
bittersweet i say -

but this mule does tend to have her gloomy moments: especially when bombarded by frantic chikkin's, missing ganders and lurkaging lurkers all blundering about!
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bulletholes10 November 2008 at 13:43
entropy increases!
hey Souby!
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