Kebel Fumes

Long armed joint at a breaking point
about to win a fragile pin to follow
through with a driving defiance.

To reap the existence of a gas soaked
paper world around the practical
violence of skies in flamed brilliance.

Another wrap around the ground
pulling through, forward with the pilot,
ignited with a scent of fire and clouds.

Tell me the power that can turn the
below above away with the worms
and crumbling ground.

Yellow and bent rearing the sound
down around the bend, foot forward
with a push as skies cry diesel dreams.

Glow and flow the old energy in the
bowls of gears and tear the sound of
turning.

Look before you turn, drown before
you learn, an hour of time to wound
the clock round the dial.

Grand prize of dime sized checkered
ignorance, a feel of trees crested,
rooted round the motor.

With a lunge to equal strong armed
ferocity away the pilot drives the beast
to a lumbering disaster.