Dimmer Switch
You’re driving at night, ignorant,
on some single track with pretensions
to be a trunk road – which, I don’t know –
maybe that winding one
skirting Loch Lomond; slippery when wet,
your switchback at Inverbeg,
those ancient potholes of Ardlui
or hidden double dips at Luss -
when, without announcement or fuss,
there’s incoming at full beam on.
But you’re pondering, mind wandering
about ancient cultures and heritage sites,
thinking, well, you know,
they weren’t actually that bright,
were they? No wonder they didn’t survive,
neither side;
no one gets out of here alive.
Maybe it’s excessive pride
that eventually did for them.
Like Michelle once cried:
When they go low, we go high
which is complete bollocks, really,
after all, you tried,
but it trips glibly off the tongue,
when you’re young.
Here’s another one.
Football, a matter of life and death,
he assures you.
Defend until your last breath,
then, take a celestial escalator, ascend
like David Niven, remember him?
Oh, football’s serious, a battlefield
not a park when those fans are screaming
doctrines like we want revolution,
so here's some for free
have a bit of ideology
knocked into you, boy,
and fisting each other if they get
a wrong line or chant out of step -
mate, they should’ve known better
at their ancient age.
Game? Forget it:
You couldn’t see nothing,
in amongst the throttling,
left them at half time to get on with it,
maim each other,
cripple themselves, brother on brother
waving flags, sticking their own eyes out,
until the last gasp of the last shout,
and the ref blew up.
But still, all this is really nothing,
a diversion before that onrushing
truck I mentioned
still oncoming and foxes you with headlamps,
one hand a wheelclamp,
the other holds the cards; a strategic bluff
or straight flush
your single track, not wide enough
for passing places or off ramps -
will you extend a middle finger, let it come
or dim your lights from full beam on?

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