We drove on the flatlands debarking at perdition
Crossing the scorched edifice of the pacific highway
As the weary sun feigned indifference behind factory clouds
Moaning an emaciated iridescent of dawns early dirge
As it stood on the corpse of the endless horizon
Forever typecast in its unflinching position
While we traced our lines of fate for some recognition
Blowing silent discourse in the grime soaked easy winds
As we three rinsed discombobulated in this mobile casket
Imprudently, flinching in our involuntary station
As the blue sedan trot modestly with some self-assurance
Towards the unending wind our oblivious terminus
Brownstone was the earth in all its deathless indigo
That it seemed to be a paradise for the weathering apocalypse
And up we went through landscapes of a surrealist pessimist
Something Hephaestus would dream a continent and build
The land around us was scarred with desiccation
As a prairie of craters dotted our putrefied visage
With Cyclical stacks of Sulphur leered out from their navels
And fires billowed whitecaps of searing molten flame
Swelling out round the asphalt of our liquescent lane
That shot out the bitumen into hot coals under our wheels
Which singed and charred the interior like a hot tub for our skin
Our forms lay disfigured into the incredible swarms of sweat
Seething from the urgency of incorporeal perception
Dissected with heat in our dehydrated organs
We drove on the wastelands of the pacific road perdition
Heading miles and miles towards uncertain spaces
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem