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Old highway backcountry dirt turnoffs. An unassuming gateway to pavement chained travelers. Blink off inturned eyes and look. It's more than tree trunks standing, perked like bristles on a comb. Thick foggy mists softening the evergreenery smothering out the stale engine smell. Smoke hanging like delinquents at a gas station, perfuming the humid air. Parallel paths winding through, scraped dirt bare. An endless forest trying to pass the choking hold of humanity over its ever verdant tonsils. Hilly. Run over around, above by guitar strings powered over scaffolded frets. Downed metal serpents hissing and cracking sparkling electrons cocked ready in striking distance of latch key kids on old bicycles.

Power Line Roads

You can almost smell the iron-blood scent of the rusted carapaces laying washed out in side road ditches. Bullet-peppered chariots dismembered, beaten, forgotten. Stolen cars joyridden into ravines. Littered metal filling another cavity. Sit empty still beating thick fingered hands on the steering wheel yelling at imaginary motorists. Ghosts of midnight window shattered pops and scorched screeches black magic markering lines across yellow divides. Spectres of excitement and loss.

Power Line Roads

Blasted gun shells splattered empty cans of cheap brew. Carbon black pits ringed in a wreath of intoxication. Smoldering – warm blemishes waiting to spark anew. Centerpieces in a ritual. Remnants frustrated, malnourished; choked on chew spit. Meshbacked reptiles churning in viscous dirty hovels clawing, howling at the sky. Chicken Fried footprints, fast food tongues in tree trunks. Leather addicts and peach fuzz barons leeching off the cover of night. Nigger lynching 50 cent blasters. Hair lips and pubescent mustaches. Racists who only fight in gangs. Amoebas staring blankly on the platform as the train of evolution passes them by.

Power Line Roads

Trucks oozing prehistoric pride. Reddened necks with white asses covered by blue overalls. Blind one eyed monster cock knuckle shufflers fellating each other in poetic monlight. Blaze orange commandos fireflying contrast in lush natural canopy. Calibers for BBs. Shooting brown skinned bestial substitutes for T.V. promised melodramas. The old glory hole of rot.

Power Line Roads

The hairs on your arm flutter fom the wind of slacked lipped leerers flapping their horseshoe bones and waving obscene gestures. Two tonned brows over sunken glazed spheres. Simeopathic Stetson smells on crusted pornography. Diner waitress predators packing six packs of promises. Mountain mounters. Rapists. Dropouts. Small town heros. Clear drool on parted lips glazing over the insight of restraint.

Power Line Roads

Stand near the road's entrance. Let your skin pave the road of millions of insect legs - pale white faced blood drop, teary eyed goosebumps. Listen. Shredded dress screams – terrorized pleas for help ricocheting off outlying suburban dwellings with their windows closed shut. Horrific paced footprints running nowhere. Haunting reverberations of throat-gripped fingers – gasping penetrations. Country music overlaying the four/four pussy tears and teeth mark bruises.

Power Line Roads

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