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The Harleys

Blats booted to blatant
Dubbing 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 in 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 riding astride, on the outside
Of sleek grunt vehicles, woman-clung,
Forty years on from Marlon.


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Poem The Harleys - Les Murray