deepundergroundpoetry.com

Sponge

The Moustache smokes tobacco and it shoots
through his lungs like the Aprila speeding from minor to
major outside. I close my eyes and remember my youth, spent between bat-wing
and self-tan. You and I, we'd stopped off at this American-style diner with

my old wedding ring still blowing
in the seventy mile per hour, biker's wind. At the opposing table The Moustache
stares across faulted fields, through the glazed window. He
admires the distorted vision from his half-lense glasses. My frisky

feet cry for the soil and the seed and the green and the shine and
the empty stomach and the dehydration and the loss of societies senses until
all was fine, all was calm. I imagine we'd stop, sit at a babbling brook and burn
our shoulders on foggy days of wake and bake. The Moustache wastes no time

in napping on his plastic chair and I observe the coffee cooling
on the noon tide. Those outside engines roar a synchronised symphony
and you and I, we are off again. We are, with sixties sunglasses, protecting our sight.
We drive all night.[/font]