Normative. Like that word. Normative Bates
opened a motel. Motel Sex. Highway,
dark, buffet-fed, playing cards with his mates.
Bullshit poker, antes up, Brothers Kray.
There's a revolution on --- water, blood
down the drain, a blue iris in full bloom
like the last painted still life of the good
caught in the headlights, unsuspecting doom.
Aye, what am I on about? What's my need?
I've been driving the long highway, no lights,
rubber radials, tacky tar; I bleed
out, soulless, leaking out ancient insights.
Bogie's at the scene with some Chandler femme,
who says to him, It's either us or them.
Why not sign up for free at my Tantric Disposition Matrix, my Substack site.
