Hanging on to the Handlebars
I can barely manage to hang on to the handlebars in this crashbar helmeted seatbelt world of seven-year plans and sudden death, this high-tone faster faster the lights are turning red merry-go-round of perpetual war and mental breakdown.
Foggy mountains and slow curves with no guard rails.
Interception, contraception, flared perception through a shattered prism.
Black visions of truth, white visions of easy come, a past gnawed away like a fox foot in a steel trap.
Home free and legless to parade into nowhere, rugged individuals waving tiny flags out front of a corporate White House.
Wrap up your troubles in swaddling and leave them on the first motherless doorstep you come to.
Rush headlong into happy hour and drown your sorrows straight into last call.