By Elizabeth Rogers
We are riding trail bikes the old guy next door lets us use ‘cause he never had any sons of his own. He says he gets a thrill outta watching us burn up and down the tracks of what might have been. Rooom room. Growling like starvation between our legs which are almost fully grown. Rooom roooom. Catch us in the sky.
We are riding fast. So fast it seems possible to fly. Gotta soar. The bikes banter. Gas-bagging like they’ve been hitched for fifty years and drought’s on its way so you’d better keep your eyes peeled. They spread their metal wings wind rushing round our shirtless selves ready for anything but nothing and you know it’s always the same. Dirty hands down undies on a third date – dirty hands searching for the deep sweet truth. There’s no sense to the thrill of becoming a man. [Read more…] about Orange