AL’S WORKSHOP

Tyre irons stand next to rusting rims,

Oil stains creep like a map across the floor.

Musty odours seep from piles of old rags.

Down in the pit the chrome spanners gleam Scattered, random; used, they clank, they see all that we cannot

As past all this arrives,

A dark shadow through the cracked window pane. I gaze, breath held, quiet, peering through the torn

Broken webs, grime and dismembered flies. A panther in denim, he silently moves,

Slowly, deliberately, evenly.

Green eyes flash catching the moon

Scarred knuckles reach out,

The dull clunk of the Bakelite switch

All is bathed in orange light.

Full-breasted women gaze vacantly from November Their smiling lips follow his trail without emotion. Oblivious, he throws back long grey hair

Places a roll-up between thin, cracked lips

Strikes a match that flares and puffs blue smoke. Inhaling sharply, he draws deeply with closed lids, Like waves filling caves or surging against stacks. Exhales slowly like swash filtering back through shingle.

A haze fills the room, dilutes the glare.

Mythical, Arthurian, of old bogs and marshes. He stands silently for a moment,

Feeling his own presence, listening to his own breathing,

Grating like chains over cogs against the still night. Like a cobra he flicks back the heavy sheet

And she is revealed…

Calloused hands caress her body, smooth

Over her curves, feel her lines.

Touch her leather, admire her beauty.

Holds his breath lest any imperfection

Spoil her radiant glow.

‘All mine’. His blood stirs from deep within,

Burning, and alive.

Catches his breath as if touching her nipple lightly. Searing energy bursts forth,

Throbs an incessant rhythm.

Swinging a heavy boot across her rump,

Feels power pulsing through his thighs,

Hears her roar and catch and roar again

As sitting back her liquid life blood

Surges through her veins.

Her mighty chest heaves and writhes.

He cuts the motor

Engine stops with a shudder. She lies still.

Black smoke wafts silently

Filling her crevasses and silent places.

He stoops to stand, greased back hair cascading over broad shoulders.

Rising tall, crushes his butt,

Under hobnailed heel.

A dull click. The light goes out.

The shadow moves. A door closes.

I have seen something beautiful yet unholy. To enchant and haunt me in my dreams.

That makes me feel strangely empty as

At 15 years old with the hairs frozen on my neck, I steal off into the night.

MARK PINCHIN mspinchin@yahoo.com