Alchemisland

Green cars will get you, ask James Dean

Skrrrrr before the term existed, kerb he bit it

Like a smoke lit big light means soon ash

Ten times whiplash his head hangs like heavy fruit dangling on thin twigs

Nose pushed in like a pug or a pig

His ride carved up the street, trenches not deep as gravediggers dig

Wig whipped back, the parts not nailed down are found a mile back

Must have hit the dash like a bullet through JFK’s back

His last smile somehow survives, the dial counting triple six miles

The bent front fender gnarled into a snarled smile wears a smoke crown

Axles ripped and doors dashed off like his head was nearly 

Think they were filming Cronenberg’s Crash years early

Soul gone attic, should have backed it into park when Alec warned you

His surname is a pint of the black stuff, your last job pilot boys from the blackstuff.