Posted by Atticus on August 6, 2004, at 21:03:20
Bullet Riders, 1988
Shot like a golden, rust-encrusted bullet
From the Jersey-side muzzle
Of the Holland Tunnel,
A '72 Chevy
The size of an aircraft carrier
Punches a sizzling hole
Through the swirling mixture
Of exhaust and air
It encounters in its path,
Carelessly leaving
A gaping wound
Of flash-fried atmospheric flesh
Miles long
In its furious wake,
Propelled
By the liquefied
Corpses of dinosaurs
And the explosive
Combination
Of hormones
Packed inside the slug's
Armor-piercing
Coating
Of corrosion
And contempt for everything
In its way.Temple's at the wheel
And our windows are rolled down,
Causing the Goth-goddess's
Shoulder-length curly hair
To stream behind her head
Like blackened Spanish moss
Caught in the grip
Of hurricane winds.
Thick eye-liner that
Nefertiti would have envied
Surrounds feline eyes
That flash yellow in the headlights
Of other four-wheeled projectiles
Heading into
The city,
Looking to do
Some damage
Of their own.Squeak of black leather pants
Over high-heeled cowboy boots
With tips as sharp as switchblades
As she shifts in the cracked
And faded vinyl
Of her seat.
I sit slouched
Beside her,
Feeling lethal, feeling fine,
Spikes bristling from my scalp,
Wearing a leather Buffalo motorcycle jacket
And jeans that look
Like a Rottweiler's chew toy.
We rip along
Until we reach
Route 17 south,
A night-tripping combo
Of vampire and punk,
Rocketing along the asphalt
To a place
Where you can really
See the stars,
Buck Rodgers space cadets
Looking for a spot
To touch down
As we run out of road
Among the six-foot-tall
Stands of wild grass
And cat-tails
In the swampy heart
Of the Jersey Meadowlands.I cook up two more
Marlboro reds
With the cigarette lighter
Growing from the dash,
Planting one between
The two strips
Of black lipstick
That frame her mouth,
And match the nail polish
Transforming her fingertips
Into the chitinous hides
Of elegantly tapered beetles
That have alit
And now sit, content and curious
To see what the
Overthrow of the sun
Will bring.Temple's skin is so pale,
So translucent,
That fine traceries
Of blue veins
Snake across her cheeks,
Tiny winding rivers,
Their currents
Almost audible
As the blood rushes
On its way
Like white-water rapids.
Robert Smith whines out
A song by The Cure
From the tape deck,
Oozing angst
As thick and dark
As crude oil
From the tinny speakers.
A clatter of buckles
As leather wrappings
Are shucked,
And we slither
Over the lip
Of the front seat
Into the back.Post-coital cigarette smoke
Slides lazily
From our mouths.
We flick ashes
Toppling from
The orange-red embers
Into the little metal receptacle
That flips out from the rear
Of the driver's seat.
"This can't last," she finally murmurs,
"Can it?"
"No," I respond, lightly brushing
My fingers
Over one
Of her porcelain cheeks.
"That really sucks," she says, and I answer,
"It surely does."
A long second hangs
In the air
While we both take in
The spray of stars visible
Through the rear windshield.
"Sun's not up yet," I say,
"Let's hit CBGB."
"Who's playing?" she asks.
"Who cares?" I shrug.
She inhales, then stamps out
Her Marlboro in the ashtray.
"OK," she laughs,
And the sound of
Her damp skin
Rubbing against the front seat
As she pulls herself over
To retrieve her clothes
Is enough
To make any teenaged boy
Shiver.And a few minutes later,
We're rolling back toward town,
And the cloudy moment has passed.
We feel so limber,
So cool,
So awake,
So indestructible,
In the way
Only two 18 year olds,
Still mostly unmarked
By the world's cruel vagaries,
Ever can.
-- Atticus
poster:Atticus
thread:374887
URL: http://www.dr-bob.org/babble/write/20040729/msgs/374887.html