Down the curtain

It was the car. the fucking car that brought us home or hell and all the fuck out of the town that dragged the last one good horse into the ground and swilled his bones for candy stones and penny heartaches.

Honda accord.

Not much to speak of from the sight of her for years but that motherfucker took us places we might never have dreamed if we really knew the power of psychadelics. weed. whiskey. beer and in betweens. black and with a system that punched the jams out the back of our heads and steadied justin's deadman handling.

He was the driver. we were the winners.

HA!HA!

MFinc. and subsidiary sin wish. cut and bruised and flailing our youth constitution. another friday. another ride. to the shores or through the coast. past cowfields. into suns rising faster than our dialations could possibly handle and all we could do to stay seeming alive was smoke and listen over and over.

Louder and louder.

Speak sleeping in the back. an old friend tending her studies. more madness than slung parties.

And then there was the crash. the wreck of the thing, at least. we were fine. he was furious. tore the back out the side on a truck back trying to outrace standstill traffic and show some muscle to the uptown church just leaving jesus and carrying his name back to china plates.

It was a mess. he swore a streak and some weeks later, after the setting of rust and past the chance for repairs we gave our black tattered beauty a name. in white paint outside a stadium. shaky. camel filters. hangovers all charm and no substance to make mind of fledgling matters.

And mac screamed.

We'd made it again.

Flawless.mp3