A pleasure-machine of gasoline utterance.
Coleridge is a dragon on the steering-wheel's blade.

This experience, to Coleridge, is scintillating, as one
would expect. S.T.'s surprise is hardly surprising.

Alas, he sees in his rear-view mirror The Mariner's
gleam frostily through millions of midnight minds.

Coleridge is driving an Aston Martin,
boot to metal on the cracked lip of a bend.

Cats' eyes wisely constellate
the Tarmac's excitingly sad black.

A skiddy sparkle patiently waits out three
whole similar moments before zero releases.

The high-performance v-v-voom is doves to him.
And Pink Floyd is a wall of stereo sound falling

into the car's interior from its British speakers.
The thin ice of modern life blisters on the Aston's headlights.

Coleridge is really driving hard this Aston Martin.
Tears lubricate the romantic road of his face.

On the passenger seat sits a gleaming disc:
its S.T.'s first Madonna CD. And beneath 

the rear-view mirror dangles a fluffy albatross 
with charnel spots.