"Gears"

"Gears"
a modern mass of ruins by way of fast words by jake kilroy.

I smoked the car gears clean,
like a gaslamp on after midnight,
a silent hum dripping like grease,
lips tight like the backseat caress,
no more morbid than the wreckage.

I painted the town black once,
or so I thought -
it turns out the lights do go out in this city,
all without the moviemakers to talk over the noise,
without the bartenders to keep us wetter than the gutters,
no maids to clean up our act;
and no stars to play their orchestra parade march,
unless it's beyond the biggest bridge.

So, on this stretch of land evening,
now here we have the markings of a street,
the rev of engines that belong to garages or bedrooms,
and I say let 'em purr...let these human beings drive,
up hills, beyond the waterworks, past navels, past belly buttons,
caress this splendid road until you're the last one out of the woods,
cackling under a harvest moon, the radio on,
with the trees spinning like ballet dancers.

Oh, what a wonder I'm sure it was to have the first car,
a modern ship that tore up the very roads for strolling,
and oh, to ever be in the throws of a woman with a record player -
but only if it's right next to a fire escape;
while your pants feel like your last attempt at grace,
like a man out of time, greased up and ready to fix everything,
at least once.