Next Turn Poem by Madrason .

The Highways of America
are endless penises ejaculating
and masturbating
into a longing dry and empty womb.

Lost souls wandering like hobo's
on iron sleeves skating away
as if afraid to miss a sigh
out of each minute, hour, day.

What good is life on a sleeve
without peyote, weed or speed
and whiskey on dry outspoken lips.

To dance and drown in shaking hips
to gaze another year astray
a kind of a way to say: 'astronomy! '. M