Those Who Wore Their Twisted Cars Poem by Clive Culverhouse
Those Who Wore Their Twisted Cars
my blood was pouring into him
while his blood stuck
my feet to the floor
a floor vibrating over wheels
screeching corners with road signs
flickering lights, shouting back at us
how we disturbed sleep
this night of every night
this shift of every shift
there's something about
metal and bone
how artistic, exquisite,
we shared our mettle
and our blood back then
my ambulance was theirs too
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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3/16/2026 1:00:03 AM # 1.0.0
The highway is a meat grinder and J. G. Ballard was its prophet.
I didn't know about JG Ballard, how interesting, glad you commented it, much appreciated, thanks