A poem I submitted for something that one time
Laurel fever
 Headlights on motorways,
On rainy nights, on inside lanes.
Young, reckless, words on your eyelashes.
Skills on your lips. Talent in your fingernails,
Like dirt that never seems to slip. Chasing those
Laurels.
You’ve millions of them, rotting around your neck.
They fill the boot of your car and are entwined in
The lace holes of your
Sneakers.
Gold your addiction, silver your sustenance,
Bronze not far behind, your old faithful jewellery.
Hit the brakes quick, you never break quick,
Patience untouchable, passion unspeakable.
It is laurel season, always laurel season, your
Laurels are seas. Sun like gold, soaked in
Honour.
But those laurels will not cushion
The blow against this road.
Young thing, your glory is nothing
If you are not breathing.
