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