’Twas in the dust-drought of the Ten-and-One, where the tarmac teethed on tire-tread and we, the reckless roisterers, played the Ethanol-Olympiad. We chased the horizon line until the horizon snapped.
Look aloft! The Teutonic Beast, that spicy Cayenne carriage, performs a terrible galliard without a dancer! The vessel is vacuous; the throne is bare. No canvas strap to bind the bodice, no belt to buckle the bone—she was untethered, ear pressed to the tele-tattle, whispering into the wire-void. With a crish-crash-splinter-mash, the machine kisses the Abstract Arbor, that painted imposter of a pine, unyielding as a bad habit.
See what flings from the window? A crystal bird, a gin-gymnast, spilling its clear poison to the wind.
But mark the ground beneath the flight! It is no earthly road, but the Maiden’s Mange-Mingle, the chaotic cuisine of the scatter-brained eve! Behold the topography: the golden-fried fowl-bit, the salty green-eye in its brine, the cylinder of swine, the biscuit-black-and-white, and the dough-moon with its tomato tide. A viral feast for the flying famished.
Read the rump of the ruin, traveler. The sticky-papers peel and preach upon the fender. The law of the road says: The more the badges, the madder the motorist. But these are not slogans; they are the jumbled-mumbled lexicon of the Twisted Frenchman.
The letters limp and lurch in a cipher-dance. To diagnose the maladies hidden in the glue, you must first name the chaotic banquet that paves the sky.
For the fever-bright femme, the hammer falls hardest.
I am the feast that unlocks the sickness. What is the password?
