they lived like dew drops
wrecking balls for keepsakes
f
a
l
l
i
n
g
d
o
w
n
the rubble slopes of ecstasy peaks
out the wighuts up-and-over
nylon
flaps
into limping daybreak
~
joints rolled in
liquorice skin
hatchbacks seats shoved back
as far as spines will bend
windows down
to
let
the sky dive in
there is no
eternal promise
to
forgive
us
now
wasted in the weakling dawn
~
take refuge in-
unhinged and high sideways banter
a backseat tin of car-warm fanta
gurn
to vomit ?
or
for
a
greasy spoon ?
~
monday morning kickstart
is
a
speed-on-cornflakes
kind-of-launch
to the 9-5 day
the office like el alamein
climbing
collapsing
collateral
to a gin house brunch
then-
crawling crabways
sliding sideways
into
cocaines
hilarious run around
dont-want-to-be-found
misadventure
of
repetitive competitive
repetitive competitive
repetitive competitive
bare faced bluff
from dawn.com
back then
in 199-oh-biscuit or whenever
us proto-grungers
us ectasy-hippies
us norm-cores
us straggle-pups and strange ducks
well
we
wouldnt
wear
seatbelts
sticking it to the ( health & safety ) man
in dumb young bravado
chasing headlight rabbits
down the wooded quarry fucktown lanes
in new-car scent magic-tree fords
playing
the bends
barratt
generic techno
new riders of the purple sage
the airplane
on phillips compact cassettes
we would pick a direction
drive till we hit the coast
with a carrier bag of beer
between my adidas feet
marlboro reds filled the ashtray
and
we
played
till
dawn
in
the
surf
and
sand
and
in the stink under amusement piers
we would break stuff
we would build stuff
we would look for ufos
we would shout BOAT if we saw a tanker
leviathan like out on the grey waves
we would laugh at statues and monuments
of epic irrelevance
to us
to all we knew
and to the chill and salty night
we would eat ourselves awake
in empty service stations
watching the traffic spread
or in truckers greasy spoons
the morning editions unread
we would pay with a fistful
of creased luncheon vouchers
won
in
night-shift
break-time
poker
we would drive home
sated and wordless
counting bridges and road kill
listening to
faith no more
little feat
and the holy modals
we were secret and weird
boxed and unboxed
our young denial unspoken
we were out-of-time
in-the-desperate-moment
anonymous on the grey motorways
undulating tongue
and
we
were
juvenile vandalous uncaring
in
those
long gone
sweet nothing
days
when we owned nothing
but owned it all
from edition.cnn.com
