This is the rush-hour
In winter
Uphill
A motorway crawl
In rain
Stretched out snaking roads
the headlights force a squint
on reacto light rapide glass tint

I forgot to buy the rose! darn.

pairs of halogen and xenon misaligned
and annoying deadline
Head on approach
And vehicle tails streak red
almost like a time lapse photo
blurred
The cars intermittent orange dash click
I thought I heard something
Indicator fed the senses information
Changing lanes

Automatically
Automatic.
Auto pilot people
Tip tronic
And almost static
Bang at it
Drivers
Automatic

The only person that owns the lane is me
de luxe or not
lexi have got
have
have rot

Where are you all going?

But most important - Where do you stay?

And from where did your four wheels carry
I wonder with concentrations finger tip blunder
I may have blown that sale
and the flooding roads submerge delay
is sure to derail the deal
how tight i feel the vinyl wheel squeeze
a stress ball, I need to relax
yes the coronary perhaps is closer

I will live forever a bull. thorough they bred.
The rubber tyres that marry the rain
The spray foam
Obscurity wiper blade failed again
And leaves streaks
And winter leaks through
The badly fitted door
Remember your first ever car?
Ford Escort
Drifting thoughts are easy
On auto-pilot
The motorway drive home
The lonely salesman clone
Vauxhall brand new
Dagenham he hangs his shirt in them
White crisp cotton sways
From the plastic grab hook
And the pearly greys
Of his leather interior, plastic
Drastic manoeuvres he’s gone right past
The dawdlers easy meat
To overtake
But the spray again carves a wake through
A juggernaut
He was never taught proper manners
Of course.
On course to the left an M62 neon concourse
Bright a wilderness of distracting junk
On sale
Make a mental note to pop in sometime
Perhaps buy an inflatable whale
For the swimming pool I may never
Need to build
If I get that commission
If I’m not killed by the pressure
I am selling myself
Therefore must be a salesman
I drive
Therfore must be a driver
I think therefore must be losing the touch
Many
Touch many
Too many
on the road
a salesman for the road
tired
tired of selling
and yelling into nokias
just wants to rest the Tiring day
Last of the spray
One more wipe
Squeak, need to reach
The travel sweet tin
River of headlight blinds back high beam
Flooding in
Glove-box
Accidentally knocks the sat nav off
Something wrong with concentration
Diminished as I finished my sweet
I must gorge on another one
Boredom killers
Comfort food
Try and elevate a sagging sales pressure mood
lift
Sucking motion I hadn’t noticed
The stationary traffic
Right foot brake
Too little too late
Microsecond inflate
Of the airbag
Drag slow motion
Flying cigarette ash fag
Windshield very close inspection
Side impact bar protection
Crumple zone
Temple butts mobile phone
Millisecond blood spurt
Parked car defiantly hurt
In seconds
I don’t believe it
I crashed
Its over, theres,
A rope,
an invisible rope
A supernova lit tunnel
A funnel like shape
I reach out for it
I cant, it all happened so fast
The cubes of glass
The impact the screeching seemed to last
Forever wallop!
I wont make the seminar
Curse this cacoon crumpled car
Actually
Its worse than that
The cd has jammed, damn my Paul Weller CD may have scratched
Forget the seminar-
Its my head
I’m not so sure as it has not become detached
By the unlatched trailer articulated
Secondary impact
Device that I slid under

I had better make a note
cancel the appointments.
Call someone to say
I wont be cold calling.