choke on the cigar spit black ink. Six cylinders slanted low profile
fed by anemic one barrel spoon-feeding
cocksucker 10 degrees and the engine is made of ice
running high idle carbon trail print in the dirty snow like
a filthy tail or a sooty skid-mark of an invisible turd which has made a hollow under the exhaust.
Chug-a-lug dirty plugs like a pug pounded punchy out of prime red meat slab on a hook
another another. Bench seats worn bumbled infused summer ass-stench. Seasons pass rusty car-cancer spreading body, frame, nuts and bolts. Noise like a pushcart full of rocks and fishing-weights as it rumbles over the potholed streets, amazing raggedy monster thing incubating teenage adventure. Burning memories like only rust-bucket beater into a 40 year-old mind.
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