It’s a new
generation ride –
with her arms entwined
around him like a grape vine.
Pulsar, their bike,
zigzags like a snake;
sometimes it prances as
a horse – yet a speed reduce
both dislike – it’s a ride along the
edge of the other world. Everybody
startles and curses. Any urgency, they
don’t have – it’s a fun. Really adolescence’s
partially blind – it seeks the greatest pleasure in
the highest risk. All the thunderous sounds – cracking,
breaking, blasting, and so on – have been synchronized on
a horrible track – silencer spits fire – all are odd alterations.
Though our roads
are acquainted with such
rides, this one ends in the rear
of a tourist taxi. Red liquid spreads,
and an ache flows slowly to somewhere.
First printed in The Literary Hatchet,US, then reprinted in my book, Kanoli Kaleidoscope by PunksWritePoems Press, US.
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