below

the bellows down below the low tide ride the rhythmic strides of a heart attack packed in the back of '58 Chevy strafing a levee as it leaves late on the breeze blowing toward the vortex of fate where complex mental states are flexed over stalled engines washed ashore from the ocean floor covered in the dust of industries' rust compelling environmental distrust between land, sky, and sea asking why we still distill and refine petrol and coal to refill and fulfill our mechanic design that taints the brine of ocean water and maligns the air with chemical fodder fit to slaughter mother earth, father sun, and daughter moon fucked like so much tainted poon that soon they'll blow a hole in us with their collective wad and grow newly seeded corrective sod over our hardened weed-breeding mecha-garden