Crushed to serve

Tick tick tick tick tick
Time smiles yet again
The mystery is not what is in the last pages
Fun is when you are in the middle of it
We all know it's all pessimistic and lost
Yet try to find some meaning
Rotating bottles do tell some stories
Who cares for others when your house is burning
Hope is such a miserable optimism
One does not feel like thinking else
The magic phrase–this shall pass, too,
Awaits in the centre
Where are the right backs?
Free the gloves of moisture
Press them gently to the ground
Wipe the sweat with style
With the tongue gently moistening the lips
All chapped and dark
Too many cigarettes spoil the saliva
And the sense to smell gets smoked out
When rhododendrons get pulped into bottles
With migraine loosening its purse of wealth
Into the valley of death road the five fighter jets
Theirs not to ask why
Theirs is to just fly
Into the boiled vegetables tossed on a pan with some butter
When you don't have to shake but stir
With a magnum on your temple
One can't add one plus one
Forget the taste of salted peanuts on your plate
Add some more butter honey
As the lips are dry
And the wind is away on a honeymoon
When realism does a little bit of magic
When there are too many whens and ands
There is a machine vrooming somewhere
Twenty minutes away from the strips
The bitumen is sweating and waiting
For the rubber to lick it hot
Some more smoke in the air
Burn some more rubbers buggers
She ain't feeling much...