Grease-skid parkinglot off Prior
Pretense Avenue, airbrushed vans
on ashram asphalt rev wolf-like,
metal buddhas rolling exhaust
pipes on Pilgrim's Progress,
polished chrome hubcaps spelling
zodiac on four wheeled homes
revving heat real cool.
Audio has gone.
I can't help you, Elvis died.
Zoomcruise clutchmanship captures
tread stripped street, nightworms
puncture mufflers, squirm in gear
grind, dry in brake squeal, mud
flaps barfing into mute body
gutters. Ye olde motormaster
greasemonkey brushes hairwind
back and bags jointsmoke lonelies.
Audio has gone.
I can't help you, Elvis died.
Large droplets of Mama Loved The
Roses split into sewersteel
sparkling near stench of cheese
burgs and frenchfries and pimple
cream and sockhops and hometown
queen tongue, good and bad
lonelies with severed arms
nod to one another beneath neon.
Audio has gone. Please,
I can't help you, Elvis died.
Up Avenue crawl mutilated forms,
pushing pavement with flimflam
stumps, flopping to city hall.
Go forth from here
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