Crash Pӕndemonia

Usually the fun starts after 11p.m . Black machines and polished chrom appear like a gulp of pornographic sludge. Before I am able to utter a word, it is already done. Muscles go limp, and glass shatters into tiny fragments. It’s hard to accept the fact, that layers of skin cut through one another like snowflakes, colliding with elements od tampered glass. Every tremor is transported onto 8mm of an old tape. From the roof, warped bodies of crashed vehicles resemble flickering starts, which want to send us some insignificant messages from the suburbs. Coolant mixes with slowly leaking gasoline while we freeze, forgetting about the surrounding us world. We wake up somewhere between the crash and fetish where the desire for destruction is being born, however, you do not think about it when you put on your worn out leather. We are rushing through an abandoned city. Hour after hour passes when another bodies appear, glistening in the light of burnt headlights. During the day we sleep in musty rooms only to shake the dust rising above the asphalt after the dusk. We must be careful. Each unwanted gesture might turn into deadly tantrum. We come across death at busy junctions and abandoned warehouses. Fresh blood splashes on the walls hidden in the light of a waking dawn. Satisfaction is lined with dirty suede and red tears. Implanted skorpion bounces against pale skin every time you hold me in your arms. Breaths cease. You press the gun to your temple counting from zero to eternity. Before the heated asphalt loses its scent, we will be wiping off the last drops of sweat. Insatiable, we are still digging into the same scars, checking if we can still feel anything.