Gas Station Rose

She pushed my change back from behind the plexiglass
And then she wet her lips and smiled
And asked me why I never tried to make a pass
And her eyes were deep and wild
My head was swimming in the fumes of gasoline
As I stuttered in surprise
She laughed and said a thing that some would call obscene
But from her it sounded nice.
I made small talk for fourteen minutes, acting tough
Not too convincing, I suppose
We agreed to meet that night for chicken in the rough
Me and my gas station rose

She has a run in her dimestore pantyhose
And she knows that life’s a bitch
That ain’t my worry now as my gas station rose
Leaves me some flowers in a ditch

I was grinning so, I must have looked insane
As I drove into the cold
Ten miles down the freeway I called out her name
As I spun out of control
I never saw the patch of ice that did me in
I just couldn’t hold the road
I went over the embankment in a spin
Then I felt the truck explode
She’s finally come out from behind the plexiglass
And the flower petals froze
Standing in the rain and crying by the overpass
My lonely gas station rose.

She has a run in her dimestore pantyhose
And she knows that life’s a bitch
That ain’t my worry now as my gas station rose
Leaves me some flowers in a ditch

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About nitrovonborax

The Mighty Arthammer of von Borax strikes the Anvil of Universal Consciousness, forging Iconic Singularities of Metaphor. Nitro von Borax is widely recognized as the natural heir to the crumbling facade of an empire that Thomas Kinkade built with massmarket hack-retouched cottagey papscapes, which glow as though lit by pernicious chip-grease fires within and trigger pleasurable dissociative transport to the plebian viewer. Mr. von Borax, known to his discerning, sophisticated & politically progressive fans as "The Painter of Sprinkly Sparkles," pulls inspiration from Betty & Veronica BOTH, stolen travel brochures & comic books, Martin Denny & Italian Giallo Movies to visualize and manifest pure unfettered awesomeness for your astral excursions. His portfolio resonates at a frequency only bats can hear.

Posted on January 4, 2015, in Poems and Literary Peccadillos and tagged . Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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