70 mile per hour, one-way nighttime highway;
cars still **** past.
some with one headlight,
but most with none,
but all with horns, horns, horns
blaring, "Bryan! Your brights are blinding me!"
Old 50's culture pitches me his deceitful realtorality from the passenger's seat,
assuring me all is picturesque clean
when,
in fact,
behind his plaster hair
and plastic smile
and porcelain eyes,
disaster lies- a land mine.
Bombs-BOOM-bombs explode coldly,
leaving none to not witness fulfilled prophecy
and say,
"He's dead.
He's really, really dead."
Nov 22, 2011
Nov 22, 2011 at 11:16 PM UTC
70 mile per hour, one-way nighttime highway;
cars still **** past.
some with one headlight,
but most with none,
but all with horns, horns, horns
blaring, "Bryan! Your brights are blinding me!"
Old 50's culture pitches me his deceitful realtorality from the passenger's seat,
assuring me all is picturesque clean
when,
in fact,
behind his plaster hair
and plastic smile
and porcelain eyes,
disaster lies- a land mine.
Bombs-BOOM-bombs explode coldly,
leaving none to not witness fulfilled prophecy
and say,
"He's dead.
He's really, really dead."
Copyright November 22, 2011 by Victor Thorn
Request permission to use this poem