The twisted metal moans, longing to contract until only screams escape between slits of Chevrolet flesh. According to GE-197, humans sound like stuck pigs when they panic. Before joining the other along Route 15, he worked near a farm, so there’s no reason to refute the claim. After all, they’re both just animals—screaming meat gnashed to jelly by misfortune and negligence. Their shrill voices used to irritate us, but we’ve learned to appreciate their part in the symphony, a pointed overture to a violent highway ballet. Each crash is a masterpiece. To see things spin together and split apart so fast—how could anyone deny our sexual affections?
We delight in silver skin sweating crimson, the broken mirrors shearing muscle from bone as the crash shears our inhibitions. It is a glorious intoxication watching humans crawl from wreckage, but no one complains when drivers find themselves trapped between Death’s thighs. The more they struggle, the tighter he squeezes, their innards oozing over a steel picture of the Show Me state.
Pulpy metal makes me slick, so I pray for a struggle. Above the dew and scarlet handprints from a passenger’s fight to stand, electric oil drips down my pole, decorating the pavement with lamplit lust.
Erect in the night, we shine together as an orgy of stars bent over fiery foreplay. When flashes of red and blue color the road, we know our fun might end soon. Satisfaction is close, but we don’t let our lust peak until we’re sure it can’t get any better. We wait for ribbons of smoke to turn to billows, savoring the climb to the big bang.
My lovers hum, the fire crackles, and humans attempt to scatter. Vermillion death swallows the cars and their cargo, brighter than the barrage of vehicles sent to save them. It’s too late for that now. When their bodies ignite beneath us, our climaxes explode with their flesh, soaking the street in rivers of light.
The blood is most beautiful then, enough to keep our juices pumping while the scene is scrubbed clean. But despite how hard the crews work, the blood will always be there. Flowering spots and spatters keep us tingling. The memory is nowhere near the pleasure derived from the crash itself, but as we wait for another slippery night, we stay alight with the stains—the masturbatory roses of humanity’s daily grind.