New England.

T

he salt air burns the lungs with brilliant spite, as awful logic guides the coastal night. The intellect of madness rules the shore, where stinky sweat seeps through the station door. They wear their argyle sweaters, torn and crude, and dance with wild, erratic fortitude. The rhythm rocks through every rotting limb, a powerful, chaotic, joyful hymn. The poor folk howl their unintelligible tunes, beneath the glare of twin, demonic moons. They praise the grand American decay, and laugh as coastal blackness eats the day. 

​The Chevy engine roars, a metal beast, that rushes blindly to the spectral feast. The iron train tracks rattle, shake, and groan, as midnight buses pierce the danger zone. The darkness thickens, heavy with the scent, of ancient fish and lives entirely spent. Each human limb is twitching to the beat, of crazy engines and oppressive heat. The music screams, a sharp, cerebral knife, that cuts the throat of proud American life. The loony laughter echoes from the pier, where happy phantoms conquer every fear. 

​This brilliant, blind damnation never stops, it rocks through buses, trains, and soda shops. The intellect of poverty is clear, they celebrate the shadows drawing near. The checkered woolen patterns flash and spin, above the sweaty, rotting coastal skin. With broken limbs they stomp the muddy ground, and praise the awful darkness they have found. The endless highway stretches to the deep, where loony sailors smile within their sleep. The cycle rolls, the heavy engines roar, and blackness reigns supreme upon the shore.