Blats booted to blatant

dubbin 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 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 rifing astride, on the outside

of sleek grunt vehicles, woman-clung,

forty years on from Marlon.