Little Yellow Car

Good morning, little yellow car. It's Sunday, six a.m. Are your old bones ready to head out and roll again?

You're looking perky—a jewel drenched in dew. Perhaps you are feeling a little cheeky, too? Do I detect a glint in your eyes? That grill of yours looks incredibly wry.

I wonder what kind of lane are you game for today? Sunday mornings make for easy streets. We can play it anyway.

What if we chase the dawn like fevered squirrels along hairpin branches? We could climb up into a canopy of wintery bristled moorland grasses, perhaps stop a while among the sallow veil and watch the sun crest beneath our gaze, burning away the whispery fingers of the swirling night's haze. Or... perhaps... we should slink our way like foxes down into town and prowl through the gold-lit streets to howl at the lacklustre litters of sketchy sweetmeats and smudged titbits of last night's large treats.

Hmmmm? Let's find out what you have to say. Let's spark you up and pump some blood. Let's find out what lurks beneath that hood.

Oh!

Listen to that!

The contended purr of a pussy cat.

Awww, all curled up on your tarmac welcome mat.

Now... What would happen if I nudged this pedal toward the floor?

Ha!

Maybe...

... Maybe kitty would care to roar?

roar,

roar,

ROAR!

ROOAAARRRRR!

Ah ha!

I knew it!

You are a frisky beast!

I think a tiger lurks beneath!

roar,

roar,

ROAR!

ROOAAARRRRR!

YES! A combustion in symphony! Let's release this break, and...

Oh!

Look now...

How sweetly you steer.

Each shift buttery slick; each wiper flick, glancing a lick of sweat from your lips.

You are a panther padding through a tundra of suburban slumber. Pistons pumping, palpably pulsing. A predator with a hunger, stealthily slinking beneath salutes of strung-up fallen stars, crawling between corpse-like hedgerows and pavements strewn with gilt-edged throw-away cars. Wide-eyed and hypnotised, you want to chase the flow... to the wide-open wildness of the motorway we go!

We spin off around knotted roundabouts in a flurry of merry-go-round whir and blaze through smattered green sequins twinkling in a concrete blur. Softy, we swerve as a stoic crow stands in our way, his shiny black eye another jewel in our day. We nimble away out to the scrublands of hung fluorescent sheen that hide the skeletal remains of the grave capitalist machine. Skirt by horse hair embankments and potholes of woe, we skedaddle along, blinkers on, in search of the flow.

Away from the bright lights, we curl into unfurling vast liquorice skies. We are a tornado of yellow, a bullet in disguise, a wasp on a whimsy-filled helter-skelter ride. Lit placards of blue hail, our prize is in sight, as our road turns to mirrors, greased and glasslike. I shift you down to take the slip road corner tight, then I notch up... and you leap ahead, bounding like a sprite, stretching yourself into the shadowy coattails of a Jetstream night.

You are a jazz brush of hush. Crystals bead at your wheels as the last threads of dark bite at our heels. The sky circles pensive; its breeze shot. We are pedal to the metal, giving it all that we got. Seamlessly, we snake up Shank's pass in a ferment of fever, a laugh to the last. Pelting our way toward the horizon's silver lining, a verve of vying verges guiding our lightening, past borstals of roadworks that dare to threaten our stride. Nothing and none shall dent this ride.

Ahead, the wink of a virgin's kiss glimmers through the billows of nights mottled down, bringing blushes of pastel roses tumbling around, their petals scattering in raptures across vanilla satin sheets—bouquets of bohemia thrown over wideboy streets.

Beyond the road, I see revealed a patchwork of fallow virile folds bathed in an opera of hallowed honied golds, each edged in festooned balloons of reddened samphire trees that shimmer in the sweet relief of a returning autumn breeze. Blackbirds serenade in an exaltation of delight, and starlings start to chatter as they take their first day's flight. Night bows down to this chorus of fond farewell adieus, leaving the sky to a champagne sun and crisp November blues. I sail on into the succulence of this glowing new dawn, reverberating in reverence, praising the day I was born.

***

Authors Note:

No, I don't take drugs.