An untitled poem about highway 177

Poetry is rare for me, especially decent poetry, but this one just sorta flowed out when I was doing an exercise for a class so I figured I'd put it up.

Nicotine smoke stained sands
and skeletal shrubs of ash,
Shiver beneath besieging skies
and yet they do stand fast.
The storm will suffocate sooner
than the dead desert drowns.
I stare but steadily storm away
with a bored-out big-block’s drone.

I savor such sickly sweet squalor.
I’d stay and see the slaughter, maybe
Stop to smell the corpses. but
There’s smaller #
in Laughlin so
I steadily storm away,
Brake lights dim for heaven’s ashes,
High beams on the road to hell.

Well, Hell, if poetry is so rare...
and why not pen us some more?
You certainly seem to me not a bore
pared down to that smoking hard core
by cruising where angels don't dare.

So, tease that old muse from her lair
And fire up that screaming 444
by shoving that pedal down hard to the floor
With acrid blue smoke and lake pipes roar
show the Devil you really don't care.


BTW...I really like the flow, Vagabond. You take me back to my Harley riding Hellfire days with that bit. Ah...the feel of that power pulling me, making me grip the handlebars for fear of being ripped off by those G-forces.

Best words together....skeletal shrubs of ash, bored-out big block, heaven's ashes.

And my favourite line... High beams on the road to Hell.