Three Men Driving Headlong Poem by Greg Like

You imbecile!
You'll kill us all!

The gear stick gratingly weeps
The teeth of the berm grin through a shuck
Of an amber- unconscious night
Pured down over In a dry, furled from dirt
shape of the semaphores.
Nothing, man but to charge that smile
despite the warnings.

That monster swallows dozens of miles by the time of its breakfast
Nine inch nails pierce the animals dried skin
The leg and the feather under the rearview mirror
Discovered the same tact of panic.

For the time being only thing killed was the taste
In the mouth
It flew replaced by the rubber smell
The wheels extrust the asphalt juice
I don't see any signs,
And yet this it the greatest road of the world.

A befriended fly refuses to let me count her legs as she flies
And you won't receive letters from those who cut the horizon over here
By pieces, with their golden tounges, whit their elbows, their buttocks
They discovered the relish of borders while they where crossing over our noses
You'll ask the driver:
Hey, Isn't it better to turn back?
He doesn't heard you very well:
To take nap? Catch a snack?
Theres no need to be mad.

The machine, that we use as a vehicle
Burns galons of gas, and likes when one's foot is down
She eats the classics, the debutants, the adherents, the nihilists.
She doesn't flush that hodgepodge down with anything,
But the effervescent blood of local Indians.
It's not the case of tursting that machine rith now
Cause this beast swallows dozens by the time of its breakfast
My nine inch nails pierce the dry skin
The leg and the arm discovered
the same tact of panic.
The rubber Ouroboros on the back seat,
Kidnapt from the motel staff,
Is grinig.