her name was

she asked me to remember her

but i was already trying to forget while she plied me with pints of Lagunitas at the bar of the Crazy Horse.

she hoped that the alcohol would make me love her,

or at least act as though I liked her,

for a few moments more of this short escape that was for her so exotic.


i fucked her once

up against her brand new Buick

under thin trails of moonlight at the side of a black country road in the forest close to where i had taken a room for a month.


she was a good, sweet, stupid girl

who probably deserved happiness more than most.

she liked fishing, John Wayne, and sending me photos of her perfectly fake tits that the weed farm had paid for.


i don’t think i will remember her,

but i will save her here

as i fly into a storm

towards a place the limits of her imagination will only let her dream of.


“I’m going to get a passport next year.”


memories cost more than distractions now.

i suppose they always did.

it was just that before the body fooled the mind into thinking the cheques the ego passed would never need to be cashed.

for the irresponsible they never really are anyway.

we brush off our debts

with a heartfelt embrace,

mad tales from the other side,

and an honest smile that sends you back to the bar happy for another stolen round.


the roads that take us away are simply different.

pot holed trails down the centre of nowhere.

in the middle of Rajasthan,

for example.

riding too fast with an Israeli yoga queen on the back,

armour-less and unprotected from anything outside of our bubble that could befall us.

for how will fear ever find you here,

floating almost formless off the map?


it caught up with us later

a lost tooth, head injuries, tetanus shots, screams (not mine), scars for life, and a violent end to an-other soirée.

but that was minor

worthy wounds to exchange for those moments of life that you cannot forget,

those which set our cycle apart from the dumb merging into this thing that some call the solid ground of our dominion.


i’ll trade that every day for a motorcycle and something less than a village beside brutal, beautiful farmland in a gypsy desert.

slowing down to high-five naively naked, dirty little children who never saw a white man before.

then tearing back on the throttle,

flying along this path that we that we should never have ever taken

(could only ever have taken)

with just the sun and instinct as a guide and promise

that beyond the shimmering horizon of this place we didn’t plan to see

a slightly more formal reality lies in wait.


arriving anyway, of course.

sun burnt and ridiculous.

flighting not long after in the deep alcoves of the windows in our overly-elaborate, decadent hotel room.

the stubborn scorpion defining his fate once more,

as he stares into the too weirdly turquoise lake of Bundi that bubbles under the April sun.

or was it still March then?


that slow motion fall onto the asphalt is set in motion.

decreed in this awkward needles silence post some argument about sex,

or something else.


25 kms from Pushkar.

a shriek of unnatural collision.

the flashback of a whole life.

the desecration of joy that was this unhindered roar through just another crazy day in a country that we know will never be tamed.

the one they cannot comprehend will always be so without ever having stood here






and loved


and understanding now,

in that eternal moment,

instantly frozen

before teeth meet ground,

that what you prayed would never come to pass was in fact essential and inherent.

a point of payoff.

the entry fee in part reimbursed for your gall to face off against the might of this great beauty which hurts as much as heaven.

the same heaven that is itself the pure light of love and wonder we pirates carry in our open hearts.

a vaunted gift i bow down to in supplication whenever it demands i touch the earth,

and resist a while longer the endless empty call of the Dharma bliss.


i still remember your name, Molly.

maybe not for much longer.

but Always

and Now i apologise for nothing.

No true soul need ever be sullied so.


Get your passport.

Ride the punches.

Dodge the snipers who know not that their bullets are only the bitter ballast of protection that masks the desolation and pain of their own lives’ sorry regret and envy.

Dream with me.






Simon Friel

Simon Friel is from Manchester. His heart is in Barcelona, his soul in India. http://netherworldwonder.blogspot.co.uk/.


Edited for Unlikely by Jonathan Penton, Editor-in-Chief
Last revised on Wednesday, June 21, 2017 - 21:57