He was crucified on the handlebar with seven screws,
glover fit the nuts on the palms and the blood came between the bearings, the ball spun
, lubricated by the viscosity of cholesterol.
This chain of warp free passage on a frame wrong.
Who looked like bite the brakes grinding down
wondered where he was going to bring the wheels.
until, with the rays beyond the sunset
lanterns lit up the last track, where the asphalt ends,
and then suddenly gave up the generator.
Dark.
inevitable, cruel impact.
The saddle, usually so attached to the butts of others, was,
in this case, very prone to particulate types of abortion. Then
clatter of plates, pierced by the sound of guts levers, pedals stuck in the shins,
screaming, scrape, chips, sketches,
poles cracked on the flesh.
Viva ...
But maybe I can get the rear fender.
