crash

26.04.2018

what’s a bloodstream but a map;
roads connecting a person
to themselves, suburbs of arteries
forever circling back to the
cardiac metropolis.

there are routes that dead-end,
streets that fork and split
when you stick the knife in –
flooding engines with puddles
of standing red.

it is not so easy to maneuver here.
the brake line is cut, the wipers
stutter and smear dirt, all of
this shithole heap running on fumes
and false hope.

there is nothing for it but to crash.
bits of burning wreckage amassing
along the street signs, cacophony
of flaming garbage and metal whining.
do not enter.

there have been times…times i wished
it would work, click back into a picture
of health. spark plugs snapping at
attention when the key turns over.
the happy growl.

lately i wish it would go off
to rust in a silent wood, battery dead.
shuddering throttle as it comes to
rest between two shady trees.
a peaceful vanishing.

i don’t know. i don’t care.
it can be the cessation or the impact,
the streets caving in on themselves.
heart, chart, compass ruined;

the geography’s fucked.

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