NO. 11 (A PIECE ABOUT ILLEGAL WEEKEND RACING)
a trail of cold wetness a passing rain's legacy a weekend's night at the square's hub
pungence of pumping exhaust hazy light beams streak their path through the murky blur
the public mingle at street fringes as streaks of lights mark their motorised presence
has anyone found their night's beacon ? or is it only tonight's attraction destined to be next morning's faded memory ?
screeches and skids upon asphalt surface burning rubber doused by moist surface
thrills in a rush bets on the line for momentary glory without flawless display a reckless fool he becomes
how we've lived and where we're heading vanishes when adrenaline shoots from a quick draw all philosophical speculation abruptly cease
has anyone found their life's beacon ? or is it only tonight's attraction destined to crack up and fade at first light ? 8>)