Mad Max: Fury Road

Boll weevil. Redness. Attar. Steel powdered, ignited.
A blue landscape cornered in a yellow flame angrier and
more valkyrie
than hardness of mesas. Chargery. Daylight robbery. A mask. Serum.
Slenderness.
And a thousand blaring, dismembered deserts spat
in mother’s milk: a furious imagery of past’s stolen dignity.

More valkyrie, I subdue within a disappearing dune
but tires are steely, spiky, pollinating, relentless
and my belly is corded, my growl masky, my jump
o la la la la la o la la la la la
is spell-winded. There is wind, there is petrol, there
is a backup that is sulken, sunken, and a vehicularity
spectacular. Fearlessness was
breed, ties bathed in arrowness.

Apocalypse after, a fantasm of child labor,
a citadel of babies
a greenland shaken, icy. Badassery. And the women
in robes, more resistant than the desert,
wheel around in a postmodern dervish
that conquers gender, makes irrelevant ability.
Sought and fought valkyrie.

Ghost scape powered by electronica, a nameless
faceless whirlwind of
musicalia, a masculinity embroidered by
lament, lilting, gargantuan femininity.
Water
like milk, like a dam, like a wasteland
subdued, mildewed, maleficent, and released
in a victory for captive histories.

Not just machine, ignition, mileage. Nor sorcery.
Post-switches, tumbleweeds, somersaults,
and ferrying pistils ungodlier than traps of venus
scurrying in a more redolent mars.
Barrenness
and the sandy oasis of hope
poignant in clarity, veracity, and silkier
than an unmasked valkyrie.
Fusion.
A chase towards destiny, bedeviled and returned
to glorious marginality.

mad max_mehtacritic

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