Motor me and wreck me through;
you caught me up; you sung by night.
The wild sky reach and glass of wine; the sip of air –
so crisped and shatter. It sounds like spiked drink up and
ladies bare all.
Push the temp for accurate sensation, pulse gone wild
and feel the rumble. You can bite some asphalt;
the road-worn acts; let’s freak.
Now it makes sense?
Or are you woken with bluebird chimes and cafe checks?
Knocked from drawer; pah dumph peashé – a cashier death –
with last-time thoughts of wants and sips.
2010 Barry Comer – Illustration 2015