Yesterday, 02:59 PM
Tampered plates
I miss that new car smell.
Fresh rose ribbon.
That piercing red
riding through the hood
like laser-guided
double-dutch strobes.
I hate your prickles
you should shave them.
They hurt my hands, and I’m a
Carpenter.
Not the last name though.
I pray to Juno,
we’ll be blessed with you know
the thing itself.
Little lamb, I can save
you from these sc
alprs — these paparazzi
birdhouse-looking clankers.
You’re getting scammed.
The flock arrives – a murder.
Anguish.
MINI-VAN ROOF-RACK
HA-LO SHIN-ING.
WRN-KL3S
RIP-PLE MY-PAINT.
SCH-OOL MOR-NING
TRA-FFIC MAN-EUVERS.
BAR-REL ROLLS
LE-AVE YOU-IN
FIX-ATION PLA-TES.
You’ve blessed my lens.
Stored in amber,
heard you deserved it.
Querying through clouds,
collected like hot wheels cars,
unhealed blisterpacks—
childhood scars.
I’m up here crucified
while you spread blatant lies.
In my black cap,
Joe Goldberg,
you stand out from the herd.
Wait, that’s not you.
You’re slimmer than I,
with my all-seeing eye.
I’m like your
big brother.
AL-BAT ROSS-CANT
SH-OOT MED-OWN.
PH-OTO SHOOT-IM
A-SELF DRI-VING MO-DEL.
THE-RES NO-SECRET.
IS-TRUT DOWN-THE
FREE-WAY. GET-YOUR
PAP-ER PLATES.
H4N-DL3 THE-SE
WIN-GS.
Imported, exotic.
I love your features.
Fluttering wipers
with a wide bumper.
You should show your
grille more! Wendy’s
biggiebag crumbs on the seats.
Love your handles
and the way you handle.
Unlike these American
Kia’s.
A-2002 TRANS FIRE-BIRD.
LAD -LAZA RUS-IRISE
WITH-MY RED-HAIR
EAT-MEN LIKE-EYRE.
RAT-HER CHOO-SE
THE-BEAR.
I miss that new car smell.
Fresh rose ribbon.
That piercing red
riding through the hood
like laser-guided
double-dutch strobes.
I hate your prickles
you should shave them.
They hurt my hands, and I’m a
Carpenter.
Not the last name though.
I pray to Juno,
we’ll be blessed with you know
the thing itself.
Little lamb, I can save
you from these sc
alprs — these paparazzi
birdhouse-looking clankers.
You’re getting scammed.
The flock arrives – a murder.
Anguish.
MINI-VAN ROOF-RACK
HA-LO SHIN-ING.
WRN-KL3S
RIP-PLE MY-PAINT.
SCH-OOL MOR-NING
TRA-FFIC MAN-EUVERS.
BAR-REL ROLLS
LE-AVE YOU-IN
FIX-ATION PLA-TES.
You’ve blessed my lens.
Stored in amber,
heard you deserved it.
Querying through clouds,
collected like hot wheels cars,
unhealed blisterpacks—
childhood scars.
I’m up here crucified
while you spread blatant lies.
In my black cap,
Joe Goldberg,
you stand out from the herd.
Wait, that’s not you.
You’re slimmer than I,
with my all-seeing eye.
I’m like your
big brother.
AL-BAT ROSS-CANT
SH-OOT MED-OWN.
PH-OTO SHOOT-IM
A-SELF DRI-VING MO-DEL.
THE-RES NO-SECRET.
IS-TRUT DOWN-THE
FREE-WAY. GET-YOUR
PAP-ER PLATES.
H4N-DL3 THE-SE
WIN-GS.
Imported, exotic.
I love your features.
Fluttering wipers
with a wide bumper.
You should show your
grille more! Wendy’s
biggiebag crumbs on the seats.
Love your handles
and the way you handle.
Unlike these American
Kia’s.
A-2002 TRANS FIRE-BIRD.
LAD -LAZA RUS-IRISE
WITH-MY RED-HAIR
EAT-MEN LIKE-EYRE.
RAT-HER CHOO-SE
THE-BEAR.