Sitting unsure in my car—should I drive near or far?
The wheel burns my hands like hell’s hottest tar.
Inside this sweltering rusted animal—disgusted—
I roam and betrayal follows; no one can be trusted.
Beads of sweat drip down off my arm to the stick,
The fumes make me retch—I feel a little sick—
Door opens to a taunting driveway: rev up—drive away;
Besides, this is not the safest place for phantoms to play.
The word echoes within me—gaunt—cruelly, they flaunt
The fact that I’m no longer alive—just a muscle car’s haunt.
© 2025 Tristan Robert Lange. All rights reserved.
-
Author:
Tristan Robert Lange (
Offline) - Published: April 10th, 2025 10:26
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 14
- Users favorite of this poem: Poetic Licence, Cheeky Missy
Offline)
Comments5
My brother was into that type of car making his own funny-car with oversized engine he had more speeding tickets than the glovebox could hold. Great poem Tristan
🤣 I can imagine! Thank you, my friend. Glad the poem delivered, my friend. I apologize for the delayed response. Had a long day yesterday...came on and saw this comment half-written. 🤦♂️ Anywho. Thanks again for your time and support. Always appreciated! 🔥🚗👻🕶️☠️🌡️
Killed by there passion, never driven in one, would love to, enjoyed the read
Me either, actually! I have sat in the passenger side of one, but I have never driven in one. I actually wrote this in my SUV! 🤣 Thank you, my friend. Glad the poem delivered! Much appreciated! 🔥🚗👻🕶️☠️🌡️
You are very welcome
Good write T.
Thank you, Orchi! Much appreciated, my friend! 🔥🚗👻🕶️☠️🌡️
[I just had a ball commenting, and in attempting to eliminate the idiotic slash marks punishing the use of apostrophes, it vaporized in a heartbeat, in lieu of opening the edit page. Being fucked isn't fun when you felt inspired. Argh.] What in the world are you about in this pretty number regarding an American classic? Ah, but now I see. That generation gone unto the dogs, there's truly naught left but haints to troll the streets and alleyways looking for a place, roaming near and far, displaced by the 80's and what followed, til naught but ghosts indeed are at the wheel. Even the Fast and the Furious didn't drive that Amer'can phenomenon. La dee. How delectably rendered with superb imagery and a haunting poignancy I swear is subtly laced by a note of humor. Stupendous. I love it. Thank you for sharing.
Indeed, there is a bit of dark humor in there. Glad you caught that. And yes, MPS's handling of apostrophes is quite annoying. Thank you so much, my dear friend, for your time (double time writing, actually) and for your thoughtful analysis. Much appreciated, my friend. 🌹👏
My pleasure. You're very welcome!
That was my dad’s generation, after the oppression of the 40s they were kings in the late 50s to the mid70s, the muscle car their god of choice. So many memories and psychoanalytic fodder… much enjoyed🙏🏻🕊
Wow. Thank you for sharing that, my friend. Indeed. Thank you so much for reading and for your feedback. Always appreciated! 🔥🚗👻🕶️☠️🌡️
Most welcome 🙏🏻🕊️
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.