Alphabets Under Their Clothes

The roads were joyous and hostile. The engine was ambivalent. Driving. Thoughtlessly. The cantankerous continuum of suburbia hurtling dead flesh into a stubborn future.

Mad coins stuck in our throats. No heads. No tails. Only the choke. These gymnasts called luck landing hard on fractured shadows. Of when. Or if. That time we spent hurlting through the air possessed any glory beyond the impact.

Face up or face down. Would we recognize. Or be changed somehow. By the smell of farts from flatulent gods. Building cities from the shit. Altars drowning in piss.

And still, all these years later.

No one has flushed it.

I think we enjoy it. wading through the excrement. The more foul the mission the better the man.

Hope grows best in a garden of vomit.

Unfortunately, heros must save the villains too.