Patrick Fleskes
Riding the Max
Shiver the twisted hither,
As jazz beats by on the wings of flies,
Crusty swirled patterned ties,
Waltz down broadways st,
Looking for, an intoxicating new bore,
Of a place where they can drink their soup face,
Oh what a taste! What a waste,
Of non-existence, that silly textbook phrase,
S P A C E
Oh hum on by, my own kind of fly,
Zooming around in giant tubes, we’ll call max lines,
They scalp nature with electrode snap of powerlines,
Gee wiz, what a biz! Transport, cohort,
Money into funny, metal caskets,
So you can be swept away, for dollars a day,
To see the mad taper and escalator,
Caper, the city slaves for.
https://truml.com