Falling Bricks

"Mummy, why did Daddy just say 'Falling Bricks'?"
I was in my home office early this morning, foul-mouthing a magazine that had just aggravated me due to a mis-managed financial agreement.
"*uck*** P*****!" is what I actually said. Luckily my seven-year-old's delicate ears didn't pick that up. My wife was in hysterics. BP

Random photo courtesy of Google images.

Four Days: A Poem

A poem by Andy Charlton

four days ticking.. 
tick tock tick tock 

toothbrush cleanpants bikelock 
organise delegate restock 
tick tock tick tock 

anticipate roadrage roadblock 
vanburger wee-stop gridlock 
tick tock tick tock 

satnav smartphone truckstop 
turnstile sliproad laneswap 
tick tock tick tock 

bikepark valvestop fuelblock 
check tent lock-stop sunblock 
tick tock tick tock 

duct-tape myrace shitstops 
lineout gate-up heartstop
tick tock tick tock 

smokescreen burntmud throttlestop 
leanforward benzine clutchdrop

...............Dirtquake...............

Anthropological Archaeology

It's not often that anthropological archaeology and The Sun newspaper get mentioned in the same sentence.

I love stories of ancient texts getting discovered in wall plaster of old houses being restored. Poems scribed by builders back in 1880-something not to be re-read until a few centuries later.
When I put in a new (period-correct Amsterdamse School) door in my last house, I hid a newspaper with 9-11 front page inside the paneling.
When I moved my young family to Bristol, we bought an old dresser in Bedminster, and the drawers were lined with 1950's promotional newspapers printed by the local Wills Tobacco factory for their workers, extolling the heath virtues of smoking fags. Fascinating.

It's only taken me 10 months to lay a reclaimed parquet floor in my kitchen extension. The cherry, next year, will be plumbing in a hand-me-down Danish ABC Pejse wood burning stove. Before I put down a new steel hearth plate, I couldn't resist mummifying a classic front page from The Sun - the first and last time I will by this comic. BP

Dear Jack

When was the last time you sent a postcard? I used to send tons. Now we can so effortlessly send an email or a text message the significance of the physical message is all too easily forgotten.

Jack Kerouac's 1957 book (written in 1951, the same year as this postcard) On The Road was inspirational reading to me when I was at art school. Neal Cassady was one of the Merry Pranksters. BP

In My Own Stupid Way, I am the Working Man's Evel Knievel

From The Wilds of Wherever by Dave Bevan. BP

The Poet of Pike's Peak

Sideburn's poet, Travis Newbold, has just returned from racing the Pike's Peak International Hillclimb on his 450 Honda. Below is his report. Read his latest poem in the next issue of Sideburn, out soon.

The meat of the 7 day race, I did not expect to win this year. I also did not expect Honda to send a factory team. I raced on the same used, take-off tires I had given to me last year. Therefore I am not disappointed or surprised in my 4th place finish. Or the 1st place (factory HRC) beating my record by over 30 seconds. This sport is not for the empty bill fold. Though I feel what I have inside more than makes up for my stock dirt bike front brake and lack of a slipper clutch. I was off pace all week in practice. I crashed on day 3 in a tight switch back corner. In qualifying I lost the front again and some how brought it back and kept it on the road. 
The day before the race I learned that my front brake was dragging, getting hot and locking up. Not confidence inspiring. Not when minutes before I leave the line I here of flight for life rides and crashed bikes starting forest fires. This is not a race for the concerned with safety. This is real. Hospitals and coping mechanisms. I count myself extremely lucky and blessed by the moto gods to have the yearning desire to return next year and take back my 450cc world record on the bike I built from junk yard parts. This is why I was put on this wonderful and hard to understand planet.

The Sideburn Poet

I'm pretty sure Sideburn is the only motorcycle magazine to list a poet on the staff. And even if others had a poet, he'd be nothing like ours.
That's him above, bearded, after coming third in a big enduro race in the US and collecting his share of a $3000 purse.
Travis Newbold is his name. He races enduro, MX, flat track and he was the sixth fastest vehicle of any description at the 2012 Pike's Peak Hillclimb and 450 champ at that legendary race. He also runs a bike shop in Denver, Newbold's Motorbike Shop (photos below).
Read his poetry in Sideburn 12 and 13.
Check his 747 Rider blog too.
Oh, and he's coming all the way from Colorado to race at Dirt Quake 2. Are you going to be there? G

The Writing's On The Wall

photo of unknown origin. BP

Rye House Poetry

Gary,
Great to put a face to a pile of magazines today! Thanks for chatting to me and getting me there in the first place with your cracking Mag and Blog. Had a bloody brilliant day. Whiskey sours and an inability to stop thinking about bikes lead me to writing this messy poem when I got home... thought you might like it. Best read with liquor and music.
All the Best
Gareth

(Photos by Gregory Mild. Paul Harrison, 4, was battered, but ok to race. Then his cam pulley sheared. A bad day.)

Race 1.
Or you could
just stay at home?

The plan of
motoGP and cans - damned to real
life dull by the hint of true dirt and proper people.

Not on any
Sunday, on this Sunday in Hoddestone.

My fantasy
to the test,

The racing
lust Bike porn of every web wander, close enough to touch. Dry terrified I wont
like it,

My daydreams
stuttering upon a reality they dont match.

Get Up and
Out - hung over head desmo soothed,

Go fast, Turn left,
go fast, turn left, A10, A holeshot start.

Its bang on.

Pixels from
pages pass with rooster tails,

XR pops,
Bros shimmy shreak,

Side saddle
roll outs with mono straights.

Slapped onto
sides - angles, lines, grumbles and glides.

Hot tea from
dirty hands feed friendly smiles that

Stride by
with the clunk thud racer limp gait.

Need a steel
shoe.

Grandstand
comfort teased by a For Sale sign.

Need a
Thunderbike.

Needed this
Sunday.

My side
track thoughts will backdrop with memories -

smells,
noises, new toys, flashes and dust.

Sideburn
Soul. Keep the faith. Cheers.

I am Billy Childish

This is the poem signwritten on the board in the exhibition. Billy Childish is dyslexic and the spelling mistakes are always left in.

i am billy childish
ex drunk
and compulsive masturbator
late nite vomiter of good liquor
kisser of purple lipped women
riter of poems celebrating the
emptiness of my love
poems hungering for the moment
of my passion
wishing it could always be so
to never let my cock fall

i am billy childish
ex strongman
and 2-bit lover
late nite namer of names
corrupter of the literate
riter of poems that dare
to dream to pass down
the centurys
and touch the harts of the
the yet-to-be-born
wishing to hold them
to my arms
and kiss them all

i am billy childish
ex-poet
and failed suiside
late nite vomiter of truth and lies
kisser of the arses of girls
like the stars of god
riter of poems to lick
the thighs of the dead
for ex- lovers to denounce
and teachers to hate
wishing to paint my life
and to never let my
voice quieten