it’s missing a wheel
it’s missing a seat
chained to the meter
simply cast aside
yet he is our man
to get the job done
all hail the patron saint of
the abandoned bicycle
he patrols the scene at night
bolt cutters and heart of gold
cruises streets in rare cologne
giving to metal and chain
the gift of liberation
There’s something campy and demented about William Steffey’s Hot Rod Stigmata that reminds me of the Butthole Surfers if they could stand still for enough