Auto-Idolatry: An Instance of Instant's Carma's Gonna Get You.

Molt in Metal

See the USA

Auto-idolatry and the carnage it brings 

Screeching tires, black streaks on black tar

The shattering of glass and the exhilarating,

fear-inspiring sound of the crunch of metal-on-metal.

Blood and gasoline mix on asphalt 

Gushed from tanks, from glass shards embedded in flesh

Fluids that fueled spilled onto a roadbed not designed

for rest,
Transverse blockage of traverse with travesty.

Bumper to Bumper Cars.

Carousel

A perfect second, a nano second prior, 

the auto mobilized putting on airs

Floating on tired cushions of inflated rubber.

So blase

So bored.

empty-headed,

danger ignored.

Impudent invulnerability

is felt

Introversion's the usual

result

Imperious we become 

  Impervious as a

city skyline. 

Blind deaf and dumb.

Blend a pinch of churlishness,

a dollop of nonchalance,

Tincture it with a drop of

malice: on auto pilot you become a 

Hep feline.

Mechanical Animal.

Latest Model Citizen.

The beauty and sleek aerodynamic lines of  molded molten mass propelled through 

the same mixture of gases we inspire, then expire 'til the day we do the same

speeding us through a blur of nature, the only reality plays immoveable

the hot top we coldly traverse, mileage measured by white lines perfectly spaced

Like sprockets on reels of film, our passage is measured, any cessation of movement

easily becomes fatal, too long exposed and you burn, baby, burn.