the pixies – where is my mind

The squealing brakes working to pump to a stop but careening through the red and white octagon, cold dead rubber bleeds on the curb and pinches off life in the form of a smoker’s lung, metal sparks against corrosive metal parts, abandoned by the pimps and pusher’s park, wrapped in the wet week old paper, shivering on the bench, while mustard yellow teeth eat through my bottom lip, the lifeless vehicle punctures my veins, with the precision of a needle, and on this cold dark night met with evil, by my side, asking ‘where is my mind?’

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