Let’s leave the freeway season, drive
North into the hard-shouldered
night, tailspin to the riff of condoms
snapping.
Backlit by the hazards, Rottweiler smiles
kettle low-slung horizons,
trip out-of-hours alibis
into the trash-can-fantastic.
Future mothers brawl and scatter,
so many locks looking for a thief –
everything’s remote and fuckable,
used parts competing to be the Collision Queen.
Basking in bromide, silver negatives
captivated by the darkroom
experiment in biochemistry’s
ape-cheer, bear down
on hysteria, lean
into noxious bliss.
Backstreets crawl toward
the next crash scene. Quick fixes
won’t reframe the headlines.
There’s no gold hidden in the yard.
It’s self-service here.