It’s a new generation ride – with her arms entwined around him like a grape vine. Pulsar, their bike, zigzags like a snake; sometimes it prances as a horse – yet a speed reduce both dislike – it’s a ride along the edge of the other world. Everybody startles and curses. Any urgency, they don’t have – it’s a fun. Really adolescence’s partially blind – it seeks the greatest pleasure in the highest risk. All the thunderous sounds – cracking, breaking, blasting, and so on – have been synchronized on a horrible track – silencer spits fire – all are odd alterations. Though our roads are acquainted with such rides, this one ends in the rear of a tourist taxi. Red liquid spreads, and an ache flows slowly to somewhere. First printed in The Literary Hatchet,US, then reprinted in my book, Kanoli Kaleidoscope by PunksWritePoems Press, US.