Weird On Top

In the hawk-eyed headlights
you told me I was broken.
Like a cacti-strewn back road in a Lynch film
no escaping the wreckage of self.
Nick Cage cannot save you.
Laura Dern will not revive your bloodied torso.
Heaven is a hollow, paved with crushed pink Cadillacs.
Clunk click, vice-gripped, death-charged.
Your mouth – a steaming carburettor.
This heart – an animal engine.
Metal and flesh duet in the dying cigarette stub of August.
Sing Elvis over my final credits –
We never outrun our silly little selves.