Merchants of Tarmacs
Skilled for the workshop of rage
Reservoirs of gins
Eyes flashing scarlet lightnings
With voices rumbling like sleepy thunders
Quaky enough to jolt to life the ghost of convulsing busesThunderings from lips coated from burnt leaves
Mouth dispensing burnt incense
These are hands that rip side mirrors and write rainbowed
nothings on windshields
Nothings that bring in
so much for the Lords of the seats
Sweatless Lords with bountiful harvests
Every minute a sprint
From bodies like galleries
Bearing violent mementos of the past,
from streets of blood
With opened windows flashing
From rails of ugly grins
Illegitimate grins that legally rattle the spine of a resistance
