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Inside its cold,

cold as a fridge.

“Put on some music pleeeeaseee”

they say it’s too noisy,

too hard to concentrate

but that makes no sense

as there are no turns

just one long road;

a flat piece of liquorice.


The windows are dark

tinty I think,

outside its orange,

deep and loud

glow of the sun

burning the sand,

on fire.


Seatbelt is tight across my chest

I rock to free myself,

to clicks and clatters

a metal chatter.


The seat squeaks,

black and sticky

hurts the backs of my legs;

“Well if you wore trousers!”

I don’t like to

they creep into strange places

and itch.


Pictures and words go fuzzy,

make my stomach swirl

mixing everything up.

Together we count

so far there’s 30,

25 cars

the rest trucks

so big they rattle our insides.


Around there’s a whirr,

air being whipped and slapped

ice cream without the flake

or the sickly

red and green stripes.


The window screeches,

light and heat pour in

silky as melted chocolate,

shouts make me close it.


A curtain drawn

leaving me


stuck backstage.


Photo from: http://arjunbasu.com/archives/the-endless-road-to-publishing