Outrunning memories,
barreling down back roads,
past Alberta fields barren.
Speed;
adrenaline;
hammer down.
Something endless ahead,
everything else behind
and I simply.
exist.
Back to the empty-hearted gypsy
I’ve always been.
Rock and roll;
leather;
vintage.
Gas station coffee;
fuel of a different kind.
Run down motels;
the kind where Mother
hid with us kids
when his fists flew again.
Her weary sigh
after being thrown against stairs,
stirring sugar and cream
into black liquid in a paper cup.
Never understood the comfort
until my own life crumbled
and I found myself standing out
on the edge of some town
shattered,
shook,
terrified.
White lines make me blind
to miles passing by;
to emerald fields wavering
like silk on a ruthless prairie wind.
These small towns all look the same
in time, so why
am I still wanting to run?
It’s a high straight to the veins
while spinning my wheels in place.
Give me speed.
Give me rock.
Give me disillusion.
Give me nothing
but the humming of wheels
and guitar grunge so loud
I don’t feel a fucking thing save for
patches,
fragments,
scenes.
Flying by highway signs;
I don’t know why I’m even alive
when the only thing I know
is to run like demons
won’t writhe beneath
another strange bed,
like maybe one day I’ll be over
the one who shattered my heart.
Rock and roll is all my soul knows,
and I remain unfulfilled.
Leather;
vintage;
desolation;
disillusion.
And soon I won’t feel
a fucking thing.
