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by Mike McClean 7 months ago in surreal poetry
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by Mike McClean

December 2020

Brake lights crash through

a fragmented windshield

faster than reaction,

splintering into a corrosive

explosion of panic.

The scream of mettle

folding under pressure

rings of deafening thunder

cracked by the peal of

screeching wheels unable

to steer clear of crystal shards

that cut to a shattered core -

a classic crushed in its prime.

Drugged onto a mechanical

gurney and wheeled to an

operations table where

strategic reconstruction is

drafted into self-service,

scrapped and dressed for

parts better left unfilled,

nostalgia weeds through

the remains for choicest

pickings before consigning

the carrion to the junkyard

with determined flippancy.

“Sometimes a thing gets

broke can’t be fixed.”

Oxidizing like an exposed wine,

the skeleton opens up to

reformation. Rust and worth

accumulate equally in

undetected contradiction as

subtlety plots a coupe.

Reflecting on a world filled

with endless rearview mirrors,

sifting through discarded

parts for the right to fill

a Promethean void,

reconstruction commences

on the totaled antique.

Hours of endless restoration

and a fresh coat of paint

polish scars into character.

No cylinder left unturned,

choice scrubs the chassis

clean, returning fire to a

long-cold heart, fluttering

a nervous Monarch’s hum.

The hungry road opens

wide to the unknown

destination of a familial face.

surreal poetry

About the author

Mike McClean

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