Seat back into the pleasure position: ransacked <br />it seems to be, though taken on willingly, <br />Westminster sun, strident in afternoon, <br />takes him miles from the home of straight insights. <br />A train passes. Its squeal matches a squeal, <br />its motion clashes with hidden motion; <br />flourishing metal, like it is in the mouth. <br />Yet methodone tales do not dull the knifepoint <br />of need; they go unnoticed and unfelt. <br />There is only one drug. They share the mainline. <br />He sees the caboose: feels residual sensation; <br />the tracks are shaking with his sense of speed, <br />attempting to ruin the idea of hiding. <br />He thinks: 'no one can hide, no one ever can', <br />it is futile, like getting excused for obsessions. <br />One wonders if the conductor knows what's <br />being conducted, near piqued shrubbery? <br />No smoke but the smoke of dalliance; <br />sounds of the trains of inner rushing, <br />pistons, now, pummeling a belated passion, <br />(pleasure will be held against degradation, later) <br />like dormant heat, itself, rising on the eye.<br /><br />Lamont Palmer<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/satisfaction-in-fords/
