21
PULP
⸻
we'll never comprehend the loneliness of our existence,
The singularity of our rage against the dying light,
until the tail light in front of us
suddenly vanishes into the night.
and then it's just
us,
the road.
foot on the gas pedal,
eyes on the road,
hands on the steering wheel,
going toward
the end of the world,
the edge of the earth,
the horizon seams of the cityscape
where civilization unravels apart, revealing:
barebone badlands,
And deserted fields,
stretching on into oblivion.
we'll never comprehend others can destroy themselves,
destroy others,
until a hundred miles per hour on an endless lane
is no longer the speed
of our particles vibrating forward.
but bitter, burnt rubber wheels
screeching in the crisp winter night sky;
radio crackling like the hiss of wild animals
dashing in the inky shadow;
rhythm of our pulses catching in our eardrums;
hysterical giggles lodging in our throats;
and wonderful, colourful death
crawling down our spine.
The epiphany of our solitary unleashes in
an abrupt, foreign need,
a desperate, instinctive craving.
to hear the explosion of gasoline and flesh,
to feel the solid crunch of bones and metal,
to smell our blood,
overflowing into a pool of hot engine fluid.
to be faster, stronger, wilder
than a needle pushing over two hundreds,
than a dust cloud dissipating into the night sky.
To be greater, lesser or equal to
dull thuds slamming against our windshield,
mangled cadavers flattened under our wheels.
in this haunting silence of the universe's pocket
where the illusion tears
and stretches at its frayed, worn corners,
where nothing is bigger
or smaller
or equal to each other.
we are similarly
tiny
as the rest of the stars,
millions of lightyears away,
insignificant
as the remains of roadkills,
mowed and crippled throughout the night,
we want to disrupt this empty space that swallows
the maddening hums of our heartbeats
throbbing at the back of our skulls,
crazed trembles of our knuckles on the steering wheel,
thrill of life clamped behind our clenched teeth.
we want to
go past the end of the world,
past the edge of the earth,
into the unknown void.
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Kairosclerosis ✔ [poetry]
PoesíaHappiness has a bitter aftertaste. // A Modern Tragedy, Volume III | COMPLETED // @WattpadPoetry Positive Vibrations