Heat Flash and Whiplash

Heat flash, 2004.
Soak up the last dregs of summer.
Smoke the last drags of your cigarette,
And you're out the door.
With a heat rah creepin' up your leg,
And shades covering your over concealed eyes.

She said, "It's Saturday night, there's always a party on Saturday night."
You said, "Let's go."
She said, "OK."

Hop-hoppin' in your ride, pop-poppin', the engines reving and rarring to go.
Eat the gas, press the peddle, light the joint, you're gone.
It's blurry, you said, "Turn up the heat!"
So they turned on the air conditioner.
You pass a sign on the freeway,
And laugh because it said 60, but you thought it said 69. The driver was doing at least 79, but you thought he was doing twice that.

Look at the neive boy sitting next to you, remember dreaming about waking up next to him three nights ago.
Look away because you realize it wasn't a dream.
But he's wasted, you're wasted, who cares?

It's a funny thing how acid gives you acne and a yellow complexion, but you blame it on the heat.

The music's blarring but it's only an echo in your head, the conversations make the car spin and you could swear they're mouths are turning into surround systems.

The convertible drives like a dream though it's polluted with love bugs in the day and fire bugs at night.

They pass you back the joint and you slip out of reality behind the garish lights and sounds of city life.

"You missed the light! I told you make a right!"
So the driver makes a right, but a little late. You know what they say better late then never, you always thought that was sarcasm maybe you were right.

You're choking, gagging, not on the humidity, but on the flames cooking the back of your throat.

With a joint lodged in the back of your lung you never thought ash tasted worse, but that wasn't the problem, now the car was truly spinning, not just spinning but flipping too.

Flipping in a haze of black and blue, that's just your swollen eyes and limbs scraping the pavement.

You're slippin', sliddin' in and out of a coma, you can barely feel the Mary Jane through all the pain killers they have you on.

Your parents have to sign your will because you are paralyzed.
You shed a tear and wonder if your friends will be too busy looking for a smoke spot to come to your funeral.

She said, "It's Saturday night, there's always a party on Saturday night."
You said, "Let's go."
She said, "Ok."