motorhead

Ah, cognitive dysfunction—the brain’s equivalent of tripping over a flat surface. Was it all an illusion? Ghosts, UFOs, stealth fighters, and prophetic dread… or just my mind on a downward spiral into weirdness? Either way, I’ve decided to lean in, light a cigarette, and call it a vision.

The wind howled like a pissed-off banshee across the cliffs of Devon and Cornwall, sea thrashing violently like it just read the news. The sky? Grim as a tax return. Grey-blue, heavy, like the Earth forgot how to breathe. And then dusk hit—everything looked dreamlike and wrong, like we’d walked into a David Lynch version of Coastal Britain.

Front and centre, the Biker Prophet sat—glorious, grim, and slightly nicotine-stained—in his custom apocalypse-grade black wheelchair. A perfect marriage of biker attitude and Mad Max tech. Chrome flashed menacingly. Leather straps held him like a pagan king ready for war. His jacket, part-open, clung to a body that had long ago said bollocks to surrender. His long dirty-blonde demi-wave hair lashed around his face, which wore a goatee and the expression of someone who’s seen the void and found it wanting.

One hand clutched the wheel—his war-chariot. The other? A cigarette, of course. Smoke curled like forgotten omens. Dog tags hung from his hand like relics of battles fought, both real and psychological.

Then there was Albertine—perched on her Bonneville like a leather-clad Valkyrie from 1977. Brown demi-wave hair, curves wrapped in attitude and zips, and the kind of expression that made traffic lights change just to get out of her way. She wasn’t posing. She was the pose.

Up above, a black stealth fighter cut across the sky like a glitch in the simulation. It shimmered, bent the air, then buggered off to wherever secrets go to die. Probably to report to some intergalactic committee on whether Earth’s ready for a toaster revolution.

The Dragstar 1100 grumbled in the background. Another ghost. Another beast of the past. And yet, he smiled.

“I had to no longer ride,” he muttered. “I cried, but no one heard me. Except the universe. And maybe Valhalla.”

But he came back. and Converted the bike, hello trike, I Converted fate.

“Started riding in ’75. Rode into ’2022. Then I hacked life and rolled on. Now it’s 2025, and I’m still bloody here. Old as fuck. Still kicking.”

Motörhead blared from somewhere. Tarot cards appeared. Palm readings followed. The biker prophet and Albertine—two relics of chaos—just were. Married 42 years, bonded by madness and music.

And in the sky—symbols. Like ancient software updates from the gods. Runes. Scripts. Or maybe just birds that got too poetic. Either way, something was coming.

                “The Biker Prophet Saw It Coming.”
              “Cognitive Dysfunction? Or Divine Glitch?”
       “They Thought He Was Broken. He Was Becoming.”
        “When the Sky Spoke, He Was Already Listening.”


             “The views in this post are based on my personal    
            experience. I do not intend harm, only honesty.”   

              “By ink and breath and sacred rage, I write.
                           By storm and silence, I survive.”

                        🧌✨ @goblinbloggeruk ✨🧌