Throwbacks

The greasy haired throwbacks with sleeves of blue and green come knuckle scraping into the downtown. On donkeys of manufactured steel that gurgle and spit the blackest of breath they come roaring into yesterday--lances bent and Viagra spent. I cover my ears as the amplitude of their rolling carnival cracks the glass of Red Bull and vodka in the hand of the fair porno maiden. They sneer and spit, the rebels that understand only the old heave ho, the rebels that have nothing to rebel against but their own stupidity. The world must be a beautiful place if you see it in one dimension, wind cutting through what’s left of the hair, eyes fixed on the yellow lines, the mind a pickled remnant of something that apes once used to build great tree dwelling civilizations.