"sedan" poems
Sat on a sedan
Spiderman took her hand.
Went down on one knee
And said
Will you marry me?
I cannot face
The rest of eternity
With each generation's
Take on modernity.
It's old fashioned values
I look for and see -
Your confidence,
Common sense,
Your honesty,
Sincerity,
Your quirkiness
And peacableness.
But most of all
Your peerless take on life
Is what does it for me.
Will you be my wife?
Spiderman, Spiderman,
How you do woo!
And you have such qualities
That draw me to you -
Your patience,
Respect,
Your considerable intellect,
Your gentleness,
Strength of mind -
I could go on at length and find
You could be my cobweb?
I could be your fly?
Could you be the man for me
Until the day I die?
What more can I say than
You may have concurred
That I do things my own way.
So can you guess?
Little Miss Muffet Said Yes!
And do you know what?
As they lay there
On that Le Corbusier chair
Without a care in the world -
And you know it's not novel
To be graphic -
They were not afraid at all.
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 4:31 PM UTC
Static, memories
Emanating, separating
The postcard- perfect
Still life speaks
From its storied past.
Invisible, to drift
Among
The florid aphorisms,
Ending in
Deleterious debris,
Aftermath of
The inevitable.
Empty room, echo hollow
Tabula rasa -
Carpet clean, quite candid in it's
Return to callow.
Consciousness athirst,
Absorbing phenomena
Effervesce, inquisitive
Ideas foment,
Sealed inside a question.
The what -
Against the narrow
Scarcity,
And fatigue of should.
A tender malleable
Youth,
Betrayed, under
An assumed decorum -
Residue of truth,
Flattened emotion
Privations of a self
Unheard;
Misplaced affirmation,
Buried pathologies
In architecture
Fear manifests symbolic.
Harboring apathy
The lunacy of pious
Pedigree,
Import contagion,
Fetters of benignity
Doubt and indecision
Into ******
Cognizance,
Fallow spirits
Seep fumes of decay,
Credulity bleeds a human stain.
Social edifice, inoculated
Heirs of neurosis;
Palpable, sensual pain
And transience, though
Tacit - remain,
Our haunted history,
The blind hyperbole,
Maudlin
Forbearance, this haven,
A portrait
Of immaculate condition,
Nurtured with precision
Under sterling pretense.
Provincial domicile -
House beautiful,
Savage irony -
Unseen treasure
Innocence unabridged,
Faces, tiny creations;
Compliant vessels
Wounded,
While modernism murmurs
Its promise.
Brave New World,
In a late model sedan,
Domestic ranch on a
Corner lot,
Suburban natives,
Silence means security.
The misunderstood
Speak louder -
Consumerism beneath
Unvarnished ambition,
Never could
Repair the brokenness within...
© 2011 & 2018 W. S. Warner
Oct 20, 2011
Oct 20, 2011 at 5:38 PM UTC
Little Miss Muffet
Sits not on a tuffet
But on a Le Corbusier chair.
Curds and whey
Are not for her
As she is a vegan
And rarely eats between meals.
Along comes Spiderman,
Sits down on a sedan
And questions her
On all things entomological
And graphic novels.
And do you know what?
She is not afraid at all!
Mar 28, 2014
Mar 28, 2014 at 4:30 PM UTC
Quincy Valero
Everybody’s best friend
Jet black hair
Shiny brown eyes
A boyish smirk
Standing six foot something
Coming out of catholic school agnostic
Attending state college
Every word that came out of his mouth was a riot
A funny story of a bad situation he was in that he can laugh at now
An awkward moment with a girl he tried to get in bed
God awful train rides with a clueless conductor
Quincy Valero
A wanna-be Casanova
The irish-italian self-proclaimed “Don Juan of Dumont”
Roaring down the suburb streets in his bright yellow mustang
From Bergen county to Trenton
Edgewater to Ewing
Bumping R&B; from the 90's
A main girl
A side chick
And a few back pocket broads
Leading them on
To where?
I’m not even sure he knows
Quincy Valero
My best friend since I’ve been here in Purgatory
My lifelong cellmate
My hetero life mate
My brother of second thought
Our token white boy
He’s had his ups
Wild ragers until day break
A four way with me and two girls in my four door sedan
He’s had is downs
Falsely charged with domestic abuse
Community service, endless court room hearings, suspensions and a whole bunch of nonsense
Quincy Valero
The quintessential example of the modern day male
Stays up all night
Sleeps all day
Opportunistic
Egotistical
Miserly
*****
And hungry
Always aching to put in his two cents
And leaving everyone in a howl of laughter
An Adderall popping
Seasoned drinker
A professional *** smoker, coached by yours truly
Fast talking baritone voice
With a half serious tone
Yes, Quincy Valero
The tight plain white t-shirt wearing
Chino sporting
Nostalgic, slightly racist, sexist, anti-semitic
Bust usually honest, friendly and apologetic
Good hearted dude we all love to hate
And hate to love
Bed-headed
Pajama bottom ***
Talking about his Svedka regrets
And we laugh and laugh and the stupidest things
Then remember events that seem so long ago
And then make plans for tomorrow
Yeah, one of my best friends
My oldest friend
That’s Mr. Quincy Valero
Mar 12, 2014
Mar 12, 2014 at 11:56 AM UTC
I am a white, Jewish girl from Florida.
Hit me.
Hit me with your white girl jokes,
Your Jewish American Princess stereotypes.
I will giggle and squeal right along with you.
Because yeah,
I do order white chocolate mocha frappuchinos from Starbucks,
I Instagram pictures of my nails,
I take selfies, whiten my teeth, straighten my hair,
Shop at Forever21 and drink Naked Juice like it is my job.
Yeah, my daddy buys me things,
I don’t pay for my data plan,
There’s no way in hell I would drive a sedan,
I wear Nike shorts and avoid any nearby cameraman,
And let me tell you, I love jamming out to old school Britney Spears.
Hit me one more time, because none of that means I am any less intelligent,
Any less diligent,
Any less likely to face judgment
Than any other slice of diversity around me –
I am a white, Jewish girl
My nose is not its own cartoon,
I eat bagels (but I absolutely hate lox),
I’m not tan or even the least bit tinted,
And god knows I don’t wear Uggs.
Tell me I need to get married young,
Major in business,
Wear clothes that leave me airless,
Get some of that European gracefulness,
But don’t tell me I’m dumb.
Don’t tell me I’m not thoughtful.
I’m a white girl.
Take a glance at my resourcefulness,
Understand my goals of being ambitious,
Get rid of your own stereotype-inducing cockiness,
And notice me in all of my flawlessness.
Because I am a white girl,
And I am unique, strong, inventive,
Empowered, passionate, adventurous,
Indomitable, unbeatable.
I am an individual –
Not part of some whole that you put me in to stabilize your mold,
Not the example of a societally scatterbrained ***** meant to be your centerfold,
Not a previously worn-out piece of clothing thrown to the gutter unsold,
Rather a human being of my own rules and my own morals
A human being with ideas and intelligence and power,
A white, Jewish girl,
A person.
Nov 21, 2013
Nov 21, 2013 at 5:31 PM UTC
I watched the water rise. Creeping down the muddy street. As if a divine force was attempting a stealthy act of insurrection. I didn't have the heart to fight it. Had I only known.
I watched Hell's Half Acre silently succumb to the whimsical (however so pleasantly devastating) path of Gaea. Through this empowering incident I felt redemption like I never had before.
I jumped down from the platform of the livestock pen to personally welcome the satisfying force of nature's purification. The water lashed out and grabbed my leg. At that moment my jubilate spirit spoiled to uncontaminated terror. It was not a redemptive Spirit winding its way through the rail tracks but the serpent Lucifer. Had I only known.
And so in the West Bottoms Tavern I found myself under the ***** shoe of The Machine. A wayward phantom rising from our precarious Kansas River. It drifts through the sweet Midwest like the coal black locomotive smoke that paints a suffocating thick haze above the Stockyards.
A welcome slate of provision. A shelter covering us from the racial tension and poverty smothering the outside world. To those in the Bottoms with unruly desires, a saviour. To those at City Hall with loose morals, the messiah.
And it was at 1908, I nervously pulled the covers over my vulnerable body and sealed Satan's foul kiss with a diabolical red scrawl. We skipped hand in hand through the freshly paved streets of our "wide open" town. I always tried my best to look the other way but I knew full well that I travelled with a gang of thieves.
Nonetheless, everyone votes in our town. A brutal party whip keeps the Jackson County Democrats in line and "Charlie the *** prevents any Rabbits from multiplying.
But I've been working from within the belly of a "whale" for years and I fear we've now run out of ocean. Our arranged marriage has robbed my capacity for faithful navigation. I'm seeking a radical divorce from The Beast, the cost has become inconsequential to me.
So I found genuine redemption. Finally. I closed the driver side door to my sedan and walked out to the edge of the bridge. The water below seemed whimsical (and so pleasantly devastating) in nature, much the same as it had 36 years ago. I pinned this note to the window, and with a Ready-Mixed Concrete block tied around my waist I watched the water rise.
Oct 25, 2018
Oct 25, 2018 at 9:47 PM UTC
Kala malam tampakkan luka
Terlapis kasih, beringsut malu
Ia terbakar gugur lebur
Dan tidak termaafkan
Sesap tangismu sendiri,
Relung jiwa telah berkeluh
Sembahyang doakan maut
Akan pilu cinta dursilamu
Dengarlah tembang petaka
Perlahan menggoda luhur
Gapai lika-liku serapahnya
Dan kenakan sebagai selambu senja kini
Jika malaikat merasuk pada
Sekuntum bunga di pelupuk mata
Rimba ruak ini tak akan lebih
Besar dibanding seuntai rindu durjana
Maka dengan itu,
Akan kuajak berpesta pora
Sedu-sedan iblismu
Di taman mahakama bersimbah dosa
Lepaskan genggaman tangan itu
Dari lentera di sunyi gulita
Karena sinarnya yang rupawan
Telah meleleh dalam lumrah darah getir
Ikutlah denganku,
Kita kan menari semalam suntuk
Sampai yang tercium dalam hati
Hanya bau anyir perpisahan
Nov 24, 2015
Nov 24, 2015 at 9:07 AM UTC
You always scoop me up with a smile and a wink.
I can't help the smirk that comes in sync,
You open your broken door to let me in
You're straight out of work and you still hold the scent
of the day on you, and we're spent but still I stay on you.
And I don't need to know, but I'll ask "How was it?"
while you're driving through our cities,
for you, I wasn't just a way, I knew.
I stare at the green patches and the spills of blue,
we listen to the radio and I listen to you,
lips glisten as grass and morning dew,
tongues run along them fast, and we have a clue,
and we glance way up ahead, as the cars come to a slow
you lean over and press them to me, under the red glow
You've a hunger and my lips abundant-
a feast, for plunder, and it's no wonder
under the disguise of your caddy sedan,
you're the man whom I call daddy,
a ***** man with a solid plan
and we'll drive by some thirty friends,
and park down and around the bend,
and scramble in through your basement door
even though it's no secret anymore
We'll say hello to your mother,
pretty sure she knows I'm your lover-
and though I hide the shame
cause I don't wanna be lame
My name in your parted mouth
And you in mine, hard down south,
makes for an even better night
than kissing at all of the red lights.
Jul 12, 2018
Jul 12, 2018 at 10:10 PM UTC
This is a place on the way after the distances
can no longer be kept straight here in this dark corner
of the barn a mound of wheels has convened along
raveling courses to stop in a single moment
and lie down as still as the chariots of the Pharaohs
some in pairs that rolled as one over the same roads
to the end and never touched each other until they
arrived here some that broke by themselves and were left
until they could be repaired some that went only
to occasions before my time and some that have spun
across other countries through uncounted summers
now they go all the way back together the tall
cobweb-hung models of galaxies in their rings
of rust leaning against the stone hail from Rene's
manure cart the year he wanted to store them here
because there was nobody left who could make them like that
in case he should need them and there are the carriage wheels
that Merot said would be worth a lot some day
and the rim of the spare from bald Bleret's green Samson
that rose like Borobudur out of the high grass
behind the old house by the river where he stuffed
mattresses in the morning sunlight and the hens
scavenged around his shoes in the days when the black
top-hat sedan still towered outside Sandeau's cow barn
with velvet upholstery and sconces for flowers and room
for two calves instead of the back seat when their time came
2.7k
We were in middle school.
After the pre-algebra
exam we learned how
the body worked.
You took me into the
gymnasium and took that
left turn into the bathroom,
blew me
till your mother came
and picked you up
in her red sedan.
Then we were in high school,
and you ****** to fit in.
The drugs were
part of that too,
I suppose.
We weren't too close,
but I saw you
night after night,
making friends
in all the wrong ways.
Look how popular
you became.
Never went to college.
I don't know where
you ended up,
to be honest,
but you were a beautiful girl
with a beautiful spirit,
not like the shallow girls you
disguised yourself with.
There aren't many of you left
I'm afraid
I still think about you
and that day
after pre algebra.
--you got an A on that exam
I don't know if you remember--
Sad to think about.
I hope you're doing alright.
I hope life has you somewhere
the weather's warm,
and the sky is blue,
and the men are less
cruel than we were.
Nov 17, 2013
Nov 17, 2013 at 3:22 AM UTC
Why do I love?
Is it because I want to feel loved in recoil or is it the thought of love in absentia soldiering me to asset love.
Tell me what love is?
Love is the reason I want to get out of bed early in morning to watch the sunrise in her presence,
Love makes my feet numb and my heart seek solitude whenever she stands next to me or sit beside me in the bus on the journey to free my heart.
Love takes authority of your heart’s emotions desire that feel like a burden, not to her they aren’t,
Love gives you perception, to see her for who she is, not what she can’t be but what she’s worth.
Love is a ****** who invariably needs rehab to stay on track and feel alive where there’s oblivion in array.
Ask me what love isn’t?
Love isn’t waiting for you across the street,
Love wants you to play a game of chase, chase me if you fancy me love said.
Love isn’t a pack of sheath you keep in your ripped side pocket jean for a quickie, Love isn’t a puppy nor a cub you can teach to play a game of fetch nor play dead,
Love isn’t your wrecked black sedan you can panel beat back to its mint right condition,
Love isn’t your typical Cinderella fairytale were the glass slipper is fated to fit foolproof,
Why do I love you asked!
I love to know love, what it’s like to put her in rehab ahead of enemy lines and what it’s like to see the perception of her own personification.
Jan 5, 2019
Jan 5, 2019 at 7:39 AM UTC
I drive a white truck big and clumsy,
It's a whale,
But today I get to drive the BMW,
It's just a sedan,
But I'll make it a fireball
May 4, 2013
May 4, 2013 at 10:42 AM UTC
The Universal Declaration of Human Rights
says we all should have equal dignity,
but is that the way we think
in everyday life?
I live in a big house in wealthy suburb
and you live in a small house in a poor suburb:
Should I have more dignity than you?
Or should we have the equal dignity of fellow human-beings?
I drive an expensive sports car
and you drive a second-hand sedan:
Should I have more dignity than you?
Or should we have the equal dignity of fellow human-beings?
I wear a bespoke suit
and you wear an off-the-rack:
Should I have more dignity than you?
Or should we have the equal dignity of fellow human-beings?
Jul 21, 2019
Jul 21, 2019 at 6:36 AM UTC
curtains back through wide glass
I watch as her silver sedan circa '99 winds
the half-circle to that black interstate
next to that 24/7 diner
under that see-through mini-gown of stars --
varying shades of infinity;
I turn on the radio to add one more.
smell of you baby, my senses, my senses be praised
into the bathroom humming light, speckled mirror
to wash her salty tide from my forehead
and I feel young
and I feel lion
and I feel slow, contained fire
spilling from fingernail,
rising from aquamarine carpet to popcorn ceiling.
kissing and running, kissing and running away
before she left,
"sorry for making you the mistress in all of this."
and I said,
"you can pick the mistress."
her lips on my shoulder blade
then her coat in her hands,
her hand on the permissive doorknob
then cast toward the endless
not looking back,
but
maybe she will.
*no one will bar you
nothing will stand in your way
nothing
there's nothing*
Jan 2, 2013
Jan 2, 2013 at 1:18 PM UTC
On July the 4th in 1976, the bicentennial of our great nation. I awoke at 3am in Lakeside, Ohio to start a journey to Plant City, Florida. I was to pick up a leased car in Kent, Ohio and take it to Greenwich, Connecticut. Where I joined several others to make the trek to the Sunshine State. When I crossed the George Washington Bridge over the Hudson River in New York City, off to my right I saw the tall ships heading out to the harbor for the day's celebrations. The radio played every version of God Bless America in their archive. I sang every one of them. We traveled all day and into the night where we saw fireworks in at least 4 states. We reached our destination in Plant City very early in the morning on the 5th of July. But
I Larry Dean Goodwin on July 4th, 1976 in a brand new American made Red Chevrolet Monti Carlo sedan traveled through Ohio, Pennsylvania, New Jersey, New York, Connecticut, Delaware, Maryland, Virginia, Washington D.C., North Carolina, South Carolina, Georgia, Florida.
God Bless America, God Bless Us All.
Jul 5, 2013
Jul 5, 2013 at 12:48 AM UTC
Nobody respects a liar.
I just want to know if they chose, or just learned to cool down quicker than me.
Im not learning anything about
the riddles I gave myself years ago.
Cardboard sleeves and my truth explodes
When I fall like the last leaf.
What is one thing I have always been?
I have always been an apologist.
What else?
because everyone, you already know that.
I hate female vocalists. unless they sound like they cant stand themselves.
Unless they sound as disinterested in their own voice as I am in mine, I cant stand them.
I only respect female singers who play their own **** instruments.
And I will never have the guts to ask if you're wearing your heart on your sleeve
Or if it's just me and my wearing my heart as my sleeve.
Sometime ago I asked myself if I could see ahead, and I laughed, and hit my ****
Ive suffered,
and Ive sang it off.
Even when I couldnt sing a note to save my pathetic life.
No one respects a liar.
im not a liar.
Im not different at all.
In fact, im exactly what I've been grown around.
Im half alive and I'm nothing but sacrifice and I feel worthy when my worth is measured in something else.
There is not one thing I can stand less than people who do not underdstand their own language.
for gods sake, it's they're, not there. it's here. not heir. it's i BEFORE e.
but im a hypocrite,
because half the time...most the time i dont capitalize any I's that i'm using to explain about myself.
i think it's because it's not worth the stretch to hit the shift bar.
for myself I'm lazy.
I have an eleven key hand span on the piano, and i cannot even type properly.
thats an octave and a half almost.
I was born to be a woman that pays her taxes and has a checking account.
And a four door sedan with two carseats.
And a ring around my finger, a two bedroom house and bedtime stories all over the bookshelves.
I want to teach my partner how to play the ukulele,
i want to show my children that faith is real,
even if god isnt.
I want a family that will have me for the rest of their lives,
through good or bad.
Through tradgedy, illness,
thinness, gain, loss, stress, sobriety,
through debt and through retirement.
I was made to give,
and I feel selfish for writing this.
Because its all about me.
I want to give myself to something.
I want to be the best fiance I can be.
I want to be the best student I can be.
The best daughter.
The best owner to my pets.
The best aunt, neice, cousin.
I want to the best wife
and mother I can be.
I'm not lying.
Feb 21, 2013
Feb 21, 2013 at 7:22 PM UTC
terrible machines slipstream the extreme in-between where they grind the invalid star heaps into dust
there, they spike the lion's paw of life's Sphinx, methinks it winks at God's Riddle, and twiddles a thumb of some god, in a sky pod of dead people, hording jasmine and madness and pancakes, upon the everlasting Maybach sedan with the chrome piping and the platinum plinth, regal in ice and fire !
what aspires must be crushed into tiny little else. into neutrinos of speculation in the non rational abode of our most holy joke. the spun spoke, in a wheel of cold lotus. we know this is not a dream without motive. we know this because we notice, know this because it's flawless, and flawless reveals a mind of terrible machines that slipstream the extreme in- between where they grind the invalid star heaps, into dust ! they might spike the lion's claw of Life's sphinx, where it thinks that most people are dead inside, that might can take a joke if joke is told in a void baritone with Gamelan Bells of Unbearable Revelation, the revery of a Greek nose on the face of a broken clock.
Jun 30, 2013
Jun 30, 2013 at 2:49 AM UTC
shot of whiskey
i shot my mouth off at a bible salesman
shot a man with a glass eye on a street corner
he shot me a mean streak
shot out a candy cane window
a king in a powder blue sedan shot down the turnpike
never had a shot with her in a red flannel shirt
shot a broke down dog at a fire hydrant in birmingham
he shot out of a lawn mower
shot towards some handshaking stranger
shot down some train tracks
shadows shot with arms upraised
being shot at by electric trains
i shot a mirror at the stars
they shot back with a voiceless gesture
she shot right through my heart
her hair shot gold to kingdom come
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 10:07 PM UTC
The conspiracy's got holes, water coming in, and
everything you say on the burner, they're going
to use against you in a court of law or as
a bargaining chip to go a level or two up,
but if you get caught, who can you give up?
Whose real name do you know? You feel
it all closing in. The black sedan whose
make and model you can never peg
is always parked off to the side.
Some days it rains, and you
try to remind yourself
to cherish this. You've
killed one man, been
asked to **** two more.
The sun sets uptown and
the jewelry stores close
and the bars open,
the ones with oak tables
and longbeards serving drinks,
the ones where they look at
you funny when you pay
in cash, the ones where
the women talk loudly
about their shapes
being real, about beauty
and food and thigh gaps,
their world entire.
What a funny set of problems,
you think to yourself as
the third beer hits your head
just right and headlights
come in through the window.
You walk out the back through the kitchen
into the neighborhood with
bikes left in the street. Two, three porch lights
on. Watchers east. Watchers west.
You break your phone on the hood of a stranger's car.
You run for the first time in months.
You run past the coffee shop and the frozen yogurt shop
and the artisan haircut shop and the tattoo shop with fair trade
ink. You find yourself at your sister's on 23rd. You tie off
in the living room while your nephew yells at the
Xbox and the LCD. It's curtains. Uneven.
The warmth and softness of synthetic women swirl around
you. There's a word for this. Maybe two. You swear when
you wake you will be hunter. No more defender. No more
user. Hunter King. Dark Secret on the Wind.
Feb 16, 2015
Feb 16, 2015 at 9:30 PM UTC
Am I just a flaunting fancy
specified set of alphabets?
Now listen, sir!
My brain has owned you
a long while back
like say, a hundred times.
But ya, my mouth
is zipped for the
Terms and Conditions
I signed to intern here.
My heart is a masked
Superhero that goes
for the needy and
the helpless, while
yours just desires
to sit in the next
luxurious sedan out.
My body serves
for the nation;
no, not in war
but in the agony of being
a good citizen when things
(like you) are nomore right.
I manned up instead of you.
I can prove my worth
to the world w/o you.
Again, I shall repeat, sir!
Am I just a flaunting fancy
specified set of alphabets?
Jun 29, 2014
Jun 29, 2014 at 1:09 AM UTC
i.
we bundled in the car
wet wool and *** roast
the car that my father
brought home as a surprise
a big 1970 Buick Electra 225, four door sedan
in pale yellow
ii.
winter, the sky an eternal black
the stars all about us
the woods, my parents silent
as if they, too, know
not to break the spell,
iii.
only the whine of the tires
all the way home from
my grandparents, down the
long rolling road, cozy
my sisters and i on the
back seat bench, the heater
blasting the car to an
overwamth
iv.
feeling safe and loved and
knowing we could ride
like this
forever, chasing the full
moon all the way to its
home
but we all knew that spring
was coming
Mar 1, 2012
Mar 1, 2012 at 6:38 AM UTC
The Roman empire has fallen
sadness weeps bitter tears
how the mighty became poor old waif
and the west held their jamboree without ignominy
For once they were carried on shoulders in sedan trains
in pomp and ceremony the masters sought safaris and ruled lions
from Goa to Timbuktu the whiff of toast on marmalade n Darjeeling
jackboots and clipped voices rang in plantations n hymns in churches
The Roman empire has fallen
Tea two anti-depressants please
Oh no no how have the mighty fallen
unwanted unloved we cry diminished glory
no invites to Continental parties no lovers in Casablanca
the dusky maidens as footstool are Doctors at the corner Surgery
those hunky dark torsos ferrying cocoa to steamers heading Cardiff
are now earning two hundred thousand grand a week and drive Rolls
The Roman empire has fallen
now we just drink Bitter all the time
the mighty s of the universe are now *******
come see the bullies in the school playground playing the Raj
let me show you a place where four in ten cannot spell enterprising
did you know when not in the Tropics some go for weeks un-bathed
shock and awe jealousy n envy is the new black making them so mad
old n young no self respect, no dignity and now only sad mad bullies
Jun 6, 2019
Jun 6, 2019 at 4:29 AM UTC
A car that never changes character.
A master in going against the times.
Its high raving engine proves it's nothing close to an armature.
The legendary kidney grill never declines.
Ounce I heard that the iconic M5 is now available in x-drive, my face resembled a wet cloth but as I finished reading the article...thank god there's a setting for the tyre shredding two-wheel drive.
BMW is a car that gives you a reason to stare, BMW lovers recognise the different models by looking at the linings...something rare.
BMW's so called rivals are always claiming they have"high tech suspension", but that's only on paper then the track testing starts. That makes you wonder how much do two faced women spend on makeup.
While other motor brands have "ambition", BMW has reputation. Its rivals are stiff in corners but the Bavarian beast simply drifts... Into position, clearly spelling out two words "no competition".
BMW doesn't exactly showcase the skills of a driver, it actually displays the behavior of the car...call that ecstasy in motion, the real capture of emotion...nothing has ever been so close to perfection.
The roaring power produces a sound that is distinct, out classing a band that is full equipped. A luxury sedan that is rated five star but deep inside it is a sports car at heart. The kidney grill ensures us that even in a hundred years from a hundred metres we will have no trouble recognising a BMW.
Something we may never measures is shear driving pleasure. The only drive that BMW knows is dynamic and although the average folk might not be interested in the track runs which are always epic, he or she knows that BMW is the perfect remedy for traffic.
Ambition is BMW versus reality.
Jul 2, 2019
Jul 2, 2019 at 8:40 AM UTC
he caught her eye across the diner. put a quarter in the jukebox.
told her to choose a song, on him. she giggled and chose
the rolling stones. he said "take a walk with me"
they walked through the woods where the highway had been
before the flood in 1994.
talking like new yorkers talk but softer he took her
hand and he said "let's skip rocks let's get hot"
and soon she couldn't separate the smell of damp grass and sundown
from the smell of ***
he said "let's play car-and-driver" and she told him that the
dented white sedan belonged to a waitress,
the rusty pickup to a cook, the black lexus to a businessman.
he said "you're good at this" and she blushed.
he kissed her very violently on the drive away. the sky was orange
and it drizzled.
Jun 16, 2012
Jun 16, 2012 at 4:50 PM UTC