The wooden grip
of a solo match
soaked with petroleum
sears eye lashes
Clear the dust bowl
down the highway,
forty miles or ounzes
to burn your fashion
Desolate, dystopian realities
somewhere to be found,
is it me? hanging there
bloated, round.
Get your clean, cold buzz
cause until the cable or noose is paid
it all ends in a
black and white fuzz.