Michael Schumacher greatest of the drivers still though the greatest fell
swathe through the fjords ecstatic with a foreign ardour / oh but how they closed him down!
They poisoned his meat his mechanics made raise their hands against him, ungrateful peasants
clash
ah the spear marks on his coke ravaged body nicely taut
his corse white on a bier on Monte Carlo's immortal beach
damsels wrap his mortal remains in corporate bounds what incandescent merchandise
brakes the chains of temporal bondage he drives, yet father of his art
but in my inner ear I still hear the sound of his car the click click of his top
heart valve stopping
in the lure lock of the high necked demon that shot the waves
the open cockpit the cage that hits the American wing, the native American,
virgin, the heavy road
that broke o'er the empty wagon
the wind swept autumn crossing even the Buddhist monks cant keep up,
here is the manmachine led to bonds
the cluck cluck of the mule the disinterred corpse of Harold on the pillion
on his crest the dragon of plantagenet camp waiting,
the sand bar crossed in drag,
1st amongst the national dead retrod Saxon, 'turned from Barking
guy in the fire pit lane, lost his soul as an owl
shamed, but doves that sing —
ooo my chevalier / left at the lights
buried somewhere out by Essex County Country Club under the ash-builders merchants
high on dram
a perfect instant — the moment the sun rise on fuzzy porcelain locks
deserter stragglers struggle with their change, jump leads direct to the head of the true English king
while one confers status on the usurper that hourly accretes to the death of a man such as Schuey
ante-diluvean brute sent him speeding into the tunnel
the booking hall —
oh, our Benedictus reduced to product endorsements
(not a word of criticism mind) he made the rules,
but where is his trophies, ribands now
six stations who threw away the prince test book principal or slave
you decide
dial 9 for history