My feet tell the wheels to spin recklessly beneath me,
but I need more gas to keep on traveling aimlessly.
Fuel pumps like mothers feed mechanical children,
Recycled umbilical cords with vapor-free nozzles.
Lingering smells of vinegar, melted tires,
dried *** and gunpowder like the afterbirth of a new generation.
To each his own,
where global contention resides.