We drive the Lamborghinis
And yet we marry the Volkswagens
The giant spherical headlights
The curve of the hood, open cleavage on top.
The arching bottom and a pouted front.
And a strangeness that never depreciates with time.
It’s all about beetle mania. About an ageless
Car that everyone wants that I keep in my bedroom.
And I drive her not like a Lamborgini
No finesse or smoothness, just the metallic
Parts making noises, you don’t understand
But serenades your ear-parts to a music like no other.
And she ages with grace, with a little
Coat of red all over, calling desire
To all that she promises – a slow joy ride to eternity.
The lady-bird with wings as wheels
Taking you to places you’ve never been before.
Destinations you don’t want to leave behind.
You don’t just marry curves. You take all the winding
The meandering, the arcs, and put them all together.
Every slanting line is a curve, sculpted, welded
To be perfected by a pair of manly lips
When moments of nothingness erect mileposts
To a fine map of little glories, in chemical bonding.
To where the heart has no power. Only drag.
