the city streets are stripped bare of the cars that cloak its curves,
like venus de milo stretched out on her side.
you can see the shape of the land. she is voluptuous, calm, her breathing is settled.
the city night is a harlots make up, the dark disguises the smog thats stained
the crooked pavements. crooked trees.
at night, it's space. lights and speed.
i drive recklessly, haphazard turns born from blurred vision.
the silhouettes of other cars distilled to thier two angry flashing lights.
i gun the engine. 170 in one hand.
i gun the engine. i rape the land.
she is sleeping and i am her incubus. a devil in a winged barracuda.