Baby's got black
galwithglasses wants to know what our visions of human!Impala look like!:
Baby: rolls up slow in the mornings, grumbles all the way up from her toes; tousled but shiny, always shiny. Looks at herself in her own mirrors, bites at a nail; run ragged. Got a headful of peppersalt sometimes, diner-style, sometimes dark as the inside of a tailpipe, or a trunk; grit-cinder and hot as coals. Beautiful, Dean says. Can't help rounding curves when she walks; dreams in 180's, reverse. Used to smoke. Smokes, that is. (Don't tell Sam.) Likes: black coffee, black jackets, black vinyl; licorice no matter what Sam says. Black birds.Little black book, but it's not what you think. Memory book; bit- epitaphs, one for every, well, best not spoken of, except at a hush (backwards echo on a Zep track, Plant-reverb), late at night when all there is is the road. Dislikes: frilly windows,vanilla candles, romantic comedies (except one.) Got: Anti-possession.Magic fingers.Surprising stash of herbal tea.1930's day dress she never wears; Docs she does. Patti Smith. Knows: all the words. Riverside blues.Soundtrack: tick, coolerclink; summer stars. Digs: Vonnegut's theory of chapters but can't tell a story that way; gotta ramble.Sing.Change a tire (fast) in the rain on a Monday, Nebraska two-lane. Zippers like city limits. Lips. Spells sometimes. Crack shot. Glasscrack shoulderscar. Secret: green thumb. Shot through with ghosts; it's OK. Latinate. Initial tattoo; it's code. Odd memories: numbers, angels, Bibles, heads and blades, imaginary friend named Jane; wars and Detroit; blood and guts and blood and love and it's only Tuesday. Never too early for a drink, too late for a drive. Night owl. Mourning dove. Wears it like a glove, her love. And cherry.That's what they all say. Runs and runs and runs (don't tell Dean) 'til she runs out of road: resting heartrate, 42. Deep arms and a killer smile. She's gonna live forever.
Baby: rolls up slow in the mornings, grumbles all the way up from her toes; tousled but shiny, always shiny. Looks at herself in her own mirrors, bites at a nail; run ragged. Got a headful of peppersalt sometimes, diner-style, sometimes dark as the inside of a tailpipe, or a trunk; grit-cinder and hot as coals. Beautiful, Dean says. Can't help rounding curves when she walks; dreams in 180's, reverse. Used to smoke. Smokes, that is. (Don't tell Sam.) Likes: black coffee, black jackets, black vinyl; licorice no matter what Sam says. Black birds.Little black book, but it's not what you think. Memory book; bit- epitaphs, one for every, well, best not spoken of, except at a hush (backwards echo on a Zep track, Plant-reverb), late at night when all there is is the road. Dislikes: frilly windows,vanilla candles, romantic comedies (except one.) Got: Anti-possession.Magic fingers.Surprising stash of herbal tea.1930's day dress she never wears; Docs she does. Patti Smith. Knows: all the words. Riverside blues.Soundtrack: tick, coolerclink; summer stars. Digs: Vonnegut's theory of chapters but can't tell a story that way; gotta ramble.Sing.Change a tire (fast) in the rain on a Monday, Nebraska two-lane. Zippers like city limits. Lips. Spells sometimes. Crack shot. Glasscrack shoulderscar. Secret: green thumb. Shot through with ghosts; it's OK. Latinate. Initial tattoo; it's code. Odd memories: numbers, angels, Bibles, heads and blades, imaginary friend named Jane; wars and Detroit; blood and guts and blood and love and it's only Tuesday. Never too early for a drink, too late for a drive. Night owl. Mourning dove. Wears it like a glove, her love. And cherry.That's what they all say. Runs and runs and runs (don't tell Dean) 'til she runs out of road: resting heartrate, 42. Deep arms and a killer smile. She's gonna live forever.