GT 348: Bubbels; archival ink on paper; 14,8 x 10,5 cm; 2021.
When i find a match between
our back seat conversation
and the main light effect
of your dashboard eyes,
my oilsound breathes the fumes
of the road-hog.
License your drive,
whispers the traffic-jammed speed-limiter through my antenna.
Chevy chase your way out
on this divided glass fibre highway
of the car generation.
We’ll be out of order
anyway.
When this lease attached disaster
crosses the concrete jungle slopes,
my coolant steams under the wipers
by accident,
each mark on the right spot.
We’re still
together.
In this unheard tunnelvision of my rear view mirror,
where the perpetual prohibition
overtakes the central lock,
behind us the hoods shine
better.
Only the airco is ventilating.
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