SPITFIRE LUVIN’

 

black melts green

the day my old Mercedes got jealous

and i choke you till you are one

with the beer stench and potato chips

your pelvis buried in the spring of the backseat

harping "grow old with me", grrrrr

we tear the tongue of that lapping thread

till our breath synchronize with the engine's crash

black burns red

after you refuse to be driven by a stick

wheels racing faster than a jet stream

semen gurgling into oil dripping in my pants

the road a mishmash of wayward signpost

"but i don't want you to shortcut me", you shied

as my bloated paunch of testosterone

fails to tunnel a belch in the navel's mouth.

(Because sex sells and cars do not in a bad economy, Jay Coral wrote a poem about it.)

(Thad Higa said “This picture is too fucking big. Get it off my desktop. I don't know how to make it smaller. Get it away.”)