deepundergroundpoetry.com
This is not a metaphor.
Stalled,
the rusted engine
sputtering and spitting.
A translucent shape
dances out of the bonnet.
The clay-caked tyres
once black now brown,
squeal and vomit
as they spiral indefinitely
whilst sinking into their own holes.
A push from a single person,
the stubborn vehicle chuckles.
Maybe if we had more people
to push the car,
it would move forward
rather than permanently trenching itself.
the rusted engine
sputtering and spitting.
A translucent shape
dances out of the bonnet.
The clay-caked tyres
once black now brown,
squeal and vomit
as they spiral indefinitely
whilst sinking into their own holes.
A push from a single person,
the stubborn vehicle chuckles.
Maybe if we had more people
to push the car,
it would move forward
rather than permanently trenching itself.
Published 11th Feb 2017
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11th Feb 2017 2:56am
11th Feb 2017 11:11am
