Erotica

To consol myself,
I pass homes of unknown people
and convince myself that they were allowed to live
so why wouldn't I survive?

Headlights of racing vehicles infront of me
match the glowing, evil eyes of the sunset looming over mountains
and blend in, all smudged.
I begin to fret endlessly--
Will I too blend in to the aftermath?
Just become another piece of metal and rubbish and muscle
and teeth and gravel and skull?

The cliffs aren't sleeping,
the steep drop off isn't amazing,
these are predators that we're admiring.

Climbing the mountain
I grind against the edges of the road
taunting death with sexy whispers,
"How do you want to fuck me?
Hit it from behind?"

There's only one way to cope,
and that's to drive death crazy with sex.

Each home erected as a monument
to the life lived there;
I'm naive and in awe,
"They were allowed to live..."

If the car flips and my lover's neck snaps
I'll die in desperate shock
my tank top sticky and dense with blood
I'll lay over him and tell him it's okay
although clearly one of us is dead.

A catastrophe on the mountain
is a picture of two possessed cars racing head on
a grizzling explosion as they intertwine.

Brilliant,
I heard you calling, death;
Full speed ahead.

(Compost Heap, 2010.)