this side of Thunderdome


Remember him… when you look at the night sky.
………………………………- the Toe-cutter

You are the Night Rider,
a fuel-injected suicide machine,
a rocker, a roller,
no controller,
yer a cop killer,
the mighty weird hand of vengeance
come to smite the un-roadworthy.

You, Night Rider,
clearly unaffected
by the state’s urgences
to “yield” and, perhaps,
“soft shoulder”.

You are the Night Rider,
sleeping in on a Tuesday,
performing your masculinity
in unshowered, unshaved machissmo.

Night Rider,
won’t you come to your senses?
Nobody enjoys maniacal laughter
anymore.
It makes us think of meth,
covered in fleas, scabies,
whiskey shit,
or Janis,
and the last moments of an American Saigon.

Ahh… Night Rider,
we share your machine lust,
your fetish,
your hard-on for the muscle-bitch,
the suped-up hot rod,
the last of the V-8 Interceptors.
(1973 Australian Ford XB Falcon GT)
We, too, like a nitrous kit,
a roof and tail spoiler,
we likes our flat black:
………our murderous speed
………has driven daddy to drinkin’.

We ride!

Night Rider, we understand.
We get the infatuation
but, shit, yer a hick-weed,
all these roads lead to jail
–how have you not grasped this simple truth?
The highway is not freedom,
but a circular slave song.

Oh, Rider of Night,
why all the re-runs of Seinfeld?
And cheese bread?
You’ve grown a belly, N.R.,
and while it might be glam
to be young, dumb
and full of cum,
or all muscle
in butt-less chaps at 21,
you’re 45, and Night Rider,
no-one cares anymore
about your straight-line revolution,
about your road to freedom,
about it,
about what kind of future
you and Floosie would’a made.

The kids are alright
but
they ain’t never heard
of you
nor your last,
wild-eyed flight.

As Lord Humungous has indicated,
no one gets out
alive.

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