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We are men with children and many cupholders
Our hair graying, cocks sagging
Powers turning to fairy dust 
All the roughest of us studs.
Once having worn squared-shoulders, leather boots and responsible ranks,
Our swords are losing their temper and fagging into attractive pens.
We resort to chains, tassels and dayglo suntans 
And carnivals of cruises with deck after deck of heedless food and the womenfolk.
Joe and I ride like robbers on mountain roads
It’s all about the antenna
We triple teens hide out in meadows for the bloodhounds to lose the scent.
We cross jurisdictions picking over mountain goats on our top-heavy beasts.
Going to make the homeland secure
I thread commuters with smoke bruise tires, fuck off the patrons
Shave their front headlights and hock gunshots out the ass-end
The oily tires squared like loaves skip at spite-filled downshifts 
I dance with cars neck-neck, knee-dragging the disinterested tarmac.
When not securing the homeland with cats’ piss
I seek inappropriate thrills
Fuck ovens when there’re suicide gases from two strokes 
I shop for girls with bolt-on tits online 
And suck in the dizzying headaches of one-hundred-ten octane flat-trackers
And as with oriental whores, 
I leave roughly nauseous and longing for what wasn’t this.
Every cupholding cocksucker is a gelding 
Smoke ’em a dust cloud o black leather and temple trails o sweat
My go-fast is all back-talk and cancer-hocking
And “Sure, I’m Mad Max, who wouldn’t?”
Ignite daisies and four-ten prairie dogs
But really all I did was shrink the kids.
Barks my non-cat non-baffled
And I think “This shit’ll leave you barely knee-walking”
Joe’s got a Glock but his pension is acceleration.
It is a throttle-lock, an arrow-nock.
His is a glare, a stare and the jaw lock
He is nine-point-two metres per second per second
Each split-second a day a month a year a will-this-shit-never-end?
Til four strokes, one-point-two litres and his head explode into light
At the end of horizon’s night.

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