Mild-Mannered

The engine runs,
only stops at my beat.
If I loose the leash
the machine takes over.
No longer the mind leads,
impulse spits from the dungeons.
Sinking suicide,
I shoot dards from my mouth.
Godfather's fluid.
I can feel the front of your car
on my face.
Speed up.
Let me collide at high speed
swallowed by your light.
Gonna lick the hashtray of your body.
Fill it up and do it again.
Pain.
I like it.
For you.

Vasco Pompaelo*