The smile of traffic signals annihilates me.
City lights. What does it mean?
Tongues of streets licking my wheels,
Their constant whipsawing makes me retch;
Color drains from the spot, dull whitewalls.
The sun flickers on and off as sheets of
Smog grow heavy,
My headlights like carbon paper crumpled
In a view; the rest of me crawls
Through the haze, beaten painted skin.
The sin, the sin. My engine wheezes and cries;
A snuffed life. I’m in a fright.
Weak in a crib of rust, eating in, I am no longer pure;
My body no longer infinitely chromed,
I think I am going to the yard.
In a scrapheap province, in a pit of bodies,
Where a wrecking ball flies so blindly,
Unlucky the classic born; time has beaten the
Mileage of me, the doom mark.
Dull, dull the indelible smell of rust fisted in a metal.
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