The left turning lane gave the ghost up miles back, the drift right, violence.
Not another hacking cough, this is history, tackle repeat, shake.
Next a just so, so far built up proof, feeling to believe in, first as
tragicomedy then farce but a rather bleak and "existential"
type, then a thick rush into little reassuring dreams of oh so
normative pair bonded couple in pink fuzz then ahh fade and frump dead.
Doubled frame here by vocation, then tripled, then broken. I was
hoping his head would explode. Wrong end of metaphor telescope.
Maniac mile an hour, per faster, friction piston is barely on.
The long crash, in its grander prospect is explosive, but embedded
thick and slow as time, its contours elude. Shy away, a warm damp cloth,
leaving the smoke behind itself— hacking at the chief, clotted cream, a
roiling completely undetectable from the perspective of men's
magazines. I miss the option of taking any lefts and don't tell me
that three rights make a left because that is just blatant propaganda.
It's mineral wind that speaks some other language banging at the door
now, bringing the news the squeaky bleak news the newest new news door noir.