Another Old Black Car

by Heath Ison

Another old black car barricaded the sleep—bodies exhales this on the prosthetic words—predators tongue lovely music—remember...

This was no dream. The old black car was in a field just on the outskirts of that town—abandoned and full of unforeseen anecdotes. Should he get in? Yes, and he does. He opens the driver’s side door in the darkness of night, seating himself firmly. He turns the radio on and it still works. A broadcast channels itself and reverberates throughout that old black car.

Die on in, edge nausea—interfered—eat of fire and life—neon stained bed are tickling fearful rays hide the pauses and reflect the screaming—he switchblades the means—pulled occurrence shut then inches quickly portrait—haven a human until limbs appeared—pen positions well.

It might not have been a dream, but whose to tell or has the right to. He dissolves into another realm from the old black car.

Nail scratches in words of a patchwork—units cage screams into mercy— distractive sexual splattering begins inside shit—deceptive against couch —phone his meaningless sanity—there questions embraces him electronically—what UPRISING—tears without eyes—his image of occurrence barricades gravel rhythm for raging acid, no resentment—cells dead increases her targets—guaranteed armageddon.

Bags radiating—tongue defy the attempted glory—eyes tense asleep, saw humans repeated through event—walls relentless in their embodies become—hits intently to himself.

The hobo scalp proved second walls and screens, further safe— approached paranoia—mechanical arms exposed its aesthetic comprehension—hypnotic shit.

Heath Ison lives in Indiana. His poetry/short story collection ANTI-GRIP (Plastic/Other, 2020) was released in March 2020. He has a Twitter @h33thison.