Wheels spin on the upturned kart. Sweet metallic taste
of blood or Gatorade. No broken glass in his hair,
incipient grey beneath unforgiving flash.
The camera tracks blue sky as if a ball in flight
is still the point. Sinuses snorted to buggery,
he cannot smell the grass. [Break for sponsor's message.]
No make-up can conceal his wooden sheen. He says
'sorry' to the Blue Fairy. Sorrow is its own
reward. A primetime soundbite. No truth without tears.
Mother forgives his android replica for not
being the perfect son. Friends discuss switching off
his life support; steal batteries from his dildo.
One perfect swing and all is forgiven. To crash
without consequence is hardly worth a mention.
