Axe Derby

Never were knuckle-men. Choked up on planks of smoke, they haul towards the peplum: stabbing back at time, splinters of it flip like cars. Rolled sleeves, knees cooked, the rousie is flirting with her broom, a blonde with criminal simplicity with historical truth we can detoxify a poisoned planet. Now they’re descending the spirit heap; dribbling pinkies along fair knotty thighs. Children are returning to pick up the butts. Still the brunette is caving in the face of time, is making herself a living treasure from this surplus hour the minutes fly