Say something True

the red sportscar is driving out of my soul

I can’t stand the pressure

most days

I shift into second and third

fighting an asshole

on the freeways

their fragile ego tears

so easily


with a brush

from death

I am cleaning up my life

with death

I roar across the arteries

of cities

like a clot

moving towards the brain

of a patient

who has lost patience, lying there, watching wheel of fortune

STROKE! that fire engine

4th 5th

It feels good

There is nothing better to do

in a nursing home

Faces that have looked at my Face

for 10 years

can’t read me

illiterate, worried, imbeciles

Poker face

with an Ace

up my sleeve

I can’t make money, for big houses

at the end of long driveways

No. It’s Satan in his car

cruising the byways

the symbolism of sex

and never the real thing


in the Red

going nowhere

able to conquer, the freeways

Those fake faces, false friendships

dead end jobs, that never die

Those dead people, who don’t believe

You can see my crimes written in the sky

in smog, from my exhaust engine

Exhausted? Not really.

I was just learning how to drive.

People ignore the fundamentals.

Say something True

Young people who rebel

become old people in hell

chanting, marching, wearing t-shirts with their opinions

trapped in traffic

watching the news

giving advice, to themselves

telling stories about when they were young

how they might’ve changed the world

while I

leave my mark on the road

I know I’m not going to change it

I don’t want to

I just don’t want to die

in the slow lane.


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